


Your Crown and Glory

by Sing



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Connections, Crane is a hairdresser, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Finding Meaning, Good question., Insecurities, Journey, OC, Physical Abuse, Questioning, Romance, Slow Burn, UH I should prolly mention this is a slow burn of sorts, You've been warned, back story, flash backs, friendships, highly likely someone has cancer, human condition, life journey, like you might have to squint, maybe humor, someone might die, soul searching, super subtle, time jumps
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-05
Updated: 2019-08-28
Packaged: 2019-09-07 15:29:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 72,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16856590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sing/pseuds/Sing
Summary: Ichabod Crane is the man with the magic hands.A life of transforming manes, transforming people.It is not until meeting Abbie Mills, that someone transforms him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own sleepy hollow.

The rush of water running from the tap echoes cooly in the tiled space. The light fragrance of blossoms and fruits scents the air. Foamy white suds sluice and slide off dark strands, catch in the whirlpool of water swirling down the drain, spiralling little curlicues vanishing out of sight. The strong, meticulous, long fingered hands, weave in and out, with gentle pressure, massaging and scrubbing. A brow that creases intermittently with pleasure at the careful administrations.

A soft moan.

"Oh, that feels so good." they purr. It's so indulgent. It's the secret confidence of someone who has gone too long without being touched, without being pampered. Both. A content sigh. The smallest of smirks tugs at the corner of his lips, satisfied that he can deliver such, peace and contentment. The last of the soap is gone and nothing but gleaming wet strands remain.

"There," he rumbles softly, reaching for the soft turban to wrap the hair in. "All done."

"Already?" they laugh, "Are you sure?"

His robust, warm chuckle in response. "I'm quite sure. Now come on, let's get you in a chair."

"Oh, fine, fine. Move, you." good natured teasing as they rise, sidestepping around him and being gladly directed to a seat.

It's a little wait, while he calls out instructions on how long to leave in a dye before he returns. Capable ands land on their shoulders. Warm, comfortable, familiar. He is always like an old friend to his clients. He's trusted, dependable. And whether he wants to be or not, sometimes woven into the saga of their lives. "So, still feeling bold?" he queries.

They turn their head from side to side, admiring the dark ruby tresses. They've never been a red head before. "It's a little late to turn back now, isn't it?" they laughs. Catching the eye of their reflection in the mirror they give a definitive nod. "I'm good to go."

"I assure you, you're in good hands with me,"

They flap a hand dismissively in the air, tossing their head. "With you Ichabod Crane? I always am"

 

**_ Your Crown and Glory  _ **

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How Ichabod's love of hair started. Backstory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts and comments, appreciated!

Ichabod Crane has always had a gift for hair.

As a child, one might have cited it an unusual talent. Where other boys wanted their trucks, Ichabod wanted dolls. Not action figurines, dolls. He wanted chubby little baby dolls with unrealistically full heads of hair. He wanted barrettes and brushes and scrunchies to tie their hair up. He wanted to sit next to his mother as she went to the salon, with one of the hairdressers current magazines, and baby doll in his lap, trying haphazardly to wrangle the creatures mane into something like the model on the front cover. At first, his father had looked at him a little strange. And his sister Caroline used to fuss at him for making off with her things. But his mother; she only said he was a tender, sweet, creative boy, and why not indulge him. He's only a child. These are the formative years, she'd implore his father. These are the years where he explores and figures things out, and plays. Don't teach him consequences for play, George.

Amelia,

 _George_ , she'd insist in a tone that would brook no further argument.

That Christmas he unwrapped his first doll of his own. She was huge. He had always been a lanky child. tall for his age, often mistaken for older, and already skipped ahead a grade and had his first taste of asphalt afterbeingcalled 'wuss' at school. There was a fading bruise on Ichabod's cheek that Christmas morning. Some of the boys at school had decided to give him one last beating----one cheerfully calling "Merry Christmas!" as he'd kicked him, curled up on the ground---- before school was let out for the holidays----and he was feeling less then excited, their jeering and taunting still ringing in his ears, even as carols coursed through the room and his sister Caroline bounced excitedly waiting to unwrap presents.

George's face had scrunched, handing Ichabod his first present. A large box, in sparkling wrap, shimmering with snow flakes and candy canes. Amelia looked on, eyes a glow and warm, so excited for what her son would find.

Cautiously, warily, as if Ichabod suspected his peers had managed to package away some blows for him to unwrap, peeled away the paper, eyes growing wide in disbelief as the plastic covering of the box peeked into the brightest painted on blue eyes he'd ever seen. Interest piqued, he tore through the rest with gusto and then unearthed the plump, long limbed, doll, with the hair cascading down her back like a rippling river. The name on her quickly discarded box read 'Beautify Me Angie' and Ichabod lifted the doll up and shouted excitement, joy, twirling her around, feeling her long silky hair flow through his fingers.

"Look," Caroline coaxed, a year older and now adjusted to the idea that her brother enjoyed her dolls---and more importantly, thrilled he was now going to have his own and start leaving hers alone---- pointed to the combs and little colourful clip in pieces still attached in the packaging. "look Ichabod!" she squeaked. And when he turned around she snapped one of the clips into his own hair and reeled away laughing.

In spite of himself, George chuckled. Amelia hid a smile delicately behind her hand and Ichabod laughed loudly, swinging the bit of purple around and around as he shook his head to and fro before launching himself at his mother and father, burbling his thanks.

"Your welcome son," George choked, his heart full. He touched Ichabod's still bruised cheek and felt rage brewing inside him as he thought of the children bullying his beloved, son. His own child full of so much joy and happiness. Curious, unique.He'd had doubts before, of encouraging him, but now all George felt was a deep, sore need to protect his son.

* * *

 

Some days later, when the children went back to school, and the happy schoolyard chattering was going on. What did you get for christmas?

I got a science set!

I got a rocket!

Slime!

Monopoly!

My momma says monopoly causes fights.

A puppy!

Aww I'm jealous!

What did you get Ichabod?

And Ichabod had grown deathly silent. Shrinking away as much as he could, given his height.

"I said, what did you get Ichabod?" It was one of the older boys. Emery Ross. Ichabod had been skipped ahead a grade, while Emery had been held back in the same one, twice. He terrorized his peers as if they were the cause of him being left behind. They were to blame for his barely concealed shame----all because he was willfully stupid. He refused to do homework assignments, or ask for help if he needed it. Some either obliviously kind or egregiously dumb teacher had paired them to work together once, and when Ichabod had tried to suggest he help Emery solve a multiplication question, Emery had introduced him to the toilets, face first, during recess.

"I'm talking to you!" And then had bounced Ichabod, with his burly chest, face turning red. Emery played sports, matched Ichabod in height, and was easily two to three times his width. A perfectly manufactured little brute.

"Nothing." Ichabod stammered.

"Nothing!" Emery crowed. "Your own family doesn't love you, so you got nothing!" he jeered.

Tears were burning hotly in his eyes then. One thing to call Ichabod Crane names, another to stray on his loved ones.

"Bet it's because they love stupid Caroline more!" he continued, and his friends egged him on. He flinched away hearing Emery say that.

For one thing, every one had to know that Emery had tried to give Caroline a Christmas card, presumably before beating him up, and that Caroline had kindly refused it.

"She's not stupid!" Ichabod retorted.

"What's this?" Emery paused, intrigued. _"Icky's_ got a spine?"

"Don't call me ICKY." he shouted, voice high and bright and clear.

"Or what, ICKY." and then he was looming over him, beady eyes narrowed and mouth pulled back in a snarl. "OR WHAT."

The bell was ringing to signal the end of recess, but no one was moving, enraptured by the sudden stand off. Retreating students, slowing in their tread as they looked over shoulders, wondering what came next. Everyone knew Emery hated Ichabod.

No one imagined Ichabod had the nerve to hate him back.

Much less do anything about it.

"Are you dumb?" Emery asks. "Answer me----" and lunged, reaching for his collar, but Ichabod dodged.

"Ichabod!" a clear voice, not unlike his own. His sister's face popping up, with a worried expression in a crowd of children trying to journey inwards.

Emery was sneering again. "Ichabod!" he mimics.

"Leave him alone! Emery! Stop it!"

"Shut up stupid----"

A balled, tight little fist.

"I'm going to tell the teacher----"

"I'm not afraid of them, cowardly Caroline---"

"Is this because I wouldn't take your card?" she'd asked, confused. "I didn't take it because you're mean, Emery! You're a bully!"

"And what would you know? You're just a stupid bi---"

Emery's head whipped to the side, and down he went. Their audience scattering away in shock and awe.

Ichabod's hands were shaking and huffing both out of fear and exhilaration at what he'd just done.

"And I GOT A DOLL." he shouted triumphantly. "I GOT A DOLL FOR CHRISTMAS AND I BRUSH AND BRAID ITS HAIR AND IF YOU EVER BOTHER ME AGAIN _I'LL BRAID YOUR INTESTINES_ " he threatened madly.

* * *

 

Mr. and Mrs. Crane were called in that afternoon to talk to the principle. Emery had had to go home, as well as a few of Emery's friends. After Ichabod's declaration, Emery's friends had launched at him and Ichabod went down swinging, hard. There had been plenty of bruises and scratches and black eyes to share. He was only spared by  teachers finally sprinting out into the yard to separate them. Ichabod, among a few others, were sent to the nurse, and reported. Caroline had kicked Emery in the groin the minute he'd tried to stand.

So they were _all_ in a variant state of trouble.

It all washed over him in a blur. And at the end, when he'd gone home, His father George had clapped a hand on his shoulder, eyes bright.

"Ichabod I'm so sorry you had to do that, to defend yourself for being you. I'm sorry they picked on you. I'm proud you stood up for your sister. And don't ever let anyone ever shame you for liking what you like, for being yourself, again. There is nothing wrong with you.  You're my son. I love you."

That was the moment when Ichabod cried.

* * *

 

Emery returned to school, and snarled and spat at Ichabod. But George had been spending more time with his son, and when he wasn't watching in silent awe as Ichabod coaxed Angie the dolls hair into tiny little braids, pinning them up in styles he'd seen on tv, or a magazine he'd taken from the salon----George was growing tired of seeing the ratty, much pawed at issues in the house and was picking up a new magazine weekly for his son now, it didn't matter which. Whether hot short styles, or Hype Hair. They all fascinated Ichabod. And when he wasn't watching this affinity for creating beauty grow, he enrolled his son in a karate class. And then an instrument, too, for balance.

Caroline was fast abandoning dressing her dolls in the fineries they came from or requesting kits from the catalogue, and instead begging for her own machine to sew with. George and Amelia watched their children, growing closer in this way. Caroline made the clothes. Ichabod did the hair.

And the dolls would be paradedbefore both adoring parents in a sort of runway show, with music blaring in the background, and George flashing the camera, proper pageantry for the creative pair.

Ichabod got into less scrapes as he grew older, and was longing to turn his hand from doll heads to human. 

Caroline was a year ahead and starting a new school and nervous and fretting about her clothes, what she would look like, how she'd fit in,  and Ichabod appeared in her doorway as she paced to and fro, fretting.

"Caroline?"

"What if they don't like me, what if they think I'm weird, or lame….."

"Caroline?"

"I just want to make friends……what if…."

"Caroline," his voice more stern. She'd paused, stunned by it. Turning slowly, there was her baby brother, filling her door. Taller than her now. But still gentle in his giant baring. Nuanced, graceful. Thirteen, and a voice dropping a fifth each week it felt like.

"Yes, Ichabod?"

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other in a nervous gesture that had made her laugh. Nearly six feet already and he could still be so anxious. "What?" she snaps, but there's no heat to it.

"How about, _I_ do your hair?"

* * *

 

His hands trembled with the scissors. He sat her down in front of her vanity and threw a towel over, as he'd seen done at the salon his mother frequented. He stared at his sisters sweet, open face. It was the kind of face that could be mistaken for clueless, air-headed, instead of the kindness there was. He lifted and dropped her hair, studying. Caroline fidgeted. "Ichabod I don't have time------"

"Sssssh." Pursed lips as he cocked his head to the side. "I'm thinking."

He flipped through one of his collection of magazines, stopping on something he liked. "How about we go short?"

Caroline gulped. He was either going to screw it up, or she'd be bald by the time he was through. "Sure?" she squeaked.

Breathing deeply, he lifted a lock, slid the scissors over it and, clip

A shock of hair, fraying on towel and fluttering to the ground.

"Ichabod!" Caroline gasped in quiet, giddy shock. He'd done it. He'd actually just---"Well?" she prompted, grinning. "It's getting late, finish!"

Emboldened, beaming, that the first cut hadn't reduced his sister to tears-----he shook out his shoulders, and finished his task.

* * *

 

Caroline turned her head, from left to right, slowly. Admiring layers and curls she didn't believe her hair was capable of before. The new length helped to add a roundness to her face that made her look cheerful, but not babyish. It bounced when she shook her head and tears, unwarranted, brimmed in her eyes. Ichabod paled.

He'd done it wrong.

"I'm sorry, Caroline."

Caroline was leaning into the mirror again, in love with her reflection, "That's _me_ ," she whispered in awe "I can't believe that's---"Whirling around quickly in the chair, rapid blinking. "Sorry?" she repeated, dumbfounded. "What for?"

"I mucked it up----"

"Mucked it----Ichabod this looks brilliant! What do you mean? I love it!"

His turn to blink. "You do?"

"I feel more like myself right now than I think I ever have, I look like a high schooler!"

"You are, a high schooler. As of tomorrow"

"I know but now I look it! Like the ones on tv! Bubbly and fashionable and smart----I'm not even worried about school anymore." And she threw her arms around her brother. "I think you have a gift." she murmured into his shoulder, giving him an extra squeeze. "I think this is your calling."

"I don't know-----"

"Well I do." she said with finality, fluffing her hair now and striking poses that made him shake with laughter. "Ichabod, thank you, so much."

* * *

 

The girls at school loved her hair and Caroline proudly told them her brother did it. Soon there would be a parade of girls, Caroline's age and older, sitting in their living room on Saturday morning, waiting patiently for him to do their hair.

George, coffee in hand, reading his paper, Amelia bustling into the kitchen to grab cookies for the waiting young ladies, paused to flash a smile at her husband. "This is your fault, you know." she teased.

They'd graduated to hair care books now. Ichabod was learning how to concoct his own homemade shampoos and conditioners. Blazing through their eggs and oils.

"You gave him Angie." George pointed out, amused.Amelia huffed and tossed her hair----which Ichabod had styled just two days  before----and George chuckled to himself. "All these girls at my door for Ichabod, and not at all for the reason I expected."

And that's how it began.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to Whim Salon!

The bell dings over head as the chill wind blusters in. Cynthia Irving is working her magic. A side swept fringe, dark hair pulled up into a stylized messy bun. Full red pout, as is her signature, and wearing a burnt orange asymmetrical sweater over leather clad legs and modestly heeled studded boots, looks up from the braid pattern she's working on. Her client, Yolanda, cocks her head only slightly to see who just walked in.

There's a sort of community to the salon now, familiarity.

"You make this part turn crooked I'm not doing it again," Cynthia scolds, angling the woman's head back towards her.

Yolanda bristles, kissing her teeth and settles back into her seat. "No wonder you don't have a man, you're rough with people---- _ouch!_ "

 _"Oops_ " Cynthia smiles. "Didn't mean to pull so hard, girl. I'm _sorry_."

" _Cynthia,_ " a voice drawls and she looks up, exasperated until she sees his face.

Ichabod Crane. Six feet and change of golden blond waves, always shining like the sun can't help but to grin at him, the blue eyes so clear and bright, a piercing, intelligent gaze. Crisp collared shirt in a grey vest and the dark wash jeans and polished brogues. She bobs her head in greeting, a hard worn smile fleetingly graces her lips.

"Morning Crane."

He nods in kind warmly before turning to her patron, "Yolanda."

"Morning Ichabod," she replies sweetly. He rests a hand on each of their shoulders.

"Play nice, hm?"

Cynthia meets his gaze before rolling her eyes and shrugs out from under him. "Just go to your chair, will you?" she ruffles and sets back to work. 

Chuckling, he sets his bag down. Begins checking over his irons and scissors, laying them out just so. Cynthia watches out the corner of her eye fondly.

Ichabod Crane has always been a precise man. At least, for as long as she's known him. Likes to do things to the letter. He's a perfectionist with a strong affinity for precision, and that's what made them get along so famously in beauty school. They shared a shrewd mind and keen eye in recreating trends and making their own, and loved to skill trade. They have a long history of maneuvering around one another with dryers blasting and hair to be swept and foil wrap catching the light while highlights set in. They're long time friends and business partners, and have companionably run this, their premier salon together, for ten years.

Whim Salon has only grown in popularity over the years, catering to locals and passing celebrities alike. They're renown for their innovation, their professionalism, but also, the warm and comfortable atmosphere that always feels as though you are among friends, perhaps just getting your hair washed and blown dry in your best friends kitchen----it's the feeling of being known and seen.

It had taken years for Ichabod to truly grasp the magic that transpired, on a spiritual level,when he lay his hands on someone's head. How a person could go from morose to calm and then rejuvenated, invigorated once the style was done.

Cynthia had shared many anecdotes with him, some she'd heard as a young girl growing up, from her own mother as she had methodically greased, parted, and braided Cynthia's curling hair. 'Your hair is your beauty, is what my mother use to say.'

Your hair, or lack there of, he grew to understand, framed your face, altered the first impression. But it could also carry with it so much symbolism. How even one interacted with the world. He'd been privy as women came in with their hair too fried, processed and died, and declared they needed to start fresh, to take some care of their natural glory, rather than bending to societal expectations and proclamations of beauty.

He'd watch in awe as a newly shorn scalp sprouted dark little curls, in so many varying patterns. Fluffy downy ones. Tight, coiling tendrils. Thicker, coarser ones that formed a sort of impenetrable shining waving edge as it grew in. And further was styling of braids and weaves all other things, that while Crane had certainly taken time to master and learn while in school, requesting help from Cynthia when volunteer students came in,he wasn't given much chance to practice.

Though Yolanda offered herself upfrequently, he rather suspected it had less to do with her trusting him with her tresses, and more so because shehad a crush on him. Other wise, most of the black women, opted for Cynthia. He didn't mind, and didn't take offence to it. Sometimes Cynthia required his help, and the women never rebuffed him on that either. He supposed there was just a level of familiarity that Cynthia embodied.

But regardless of which head he touched, Crane knew that hair was more than just an encumbrance on ones head, but a crown. It could give a woman more swagger in her step, more pep in her gait, and more edge and scowl to her features if she so desired. In many cases ones hair style affected how they interacted with the world---it could carry with it a subtext of its own. A message they might want to deliver. Change how they are perceived----Men and women alike, change their hair, for exactly that.

A study in reinvention.

In cleansing.

Becoming.

Adapting.

Undoing.

Fitting in.

Standing out.

Crane watches distantly as Cynthia shakes out her left hand, holding the braid still in her right. Her wince tells him her hands have begun to cramp again. It's started doing that a bit on her lately.

"I can finish up, Cynthia."

She looks up about to brush him off, but then remembers it's Yolanda and he's more than capable. She flashes him a grateful smile instead, nodding for him to join. "Thank you," she mouths gratefully as they do the hand off and she goes to the back to run some hot water on her hand, massaging the joints.

"Hope you don't mind me stepping in," he rumbles behind the woman and he admits that he likes the way she exaggeratedly titters with excitement.

He likes this, too, if he's being honest. The intimacies of interacting with his clients. The warm fondness. And while he's not interested in Yolanda----in fact she's married----they've carried on a harmless, friendly flirtation for years.

"I don't mind at all, sugar."

" _Sugar,_ " he chuckles, turning one strand under the other. "Well I don't think you've called me sugar in a while, you must be in a good mood about something."

Yolanda wiggles as she laughs, her moving tugs the hair out of his hand and he sighs lightly. Cynthia is quicker to admonish than he is. "Yolanda," he coaxes, touching her shoulder. "Be still." She huffs, rolling her eyes to the ceiling.

Clacking steps from the back tells him Cynthia has emerged and the door dings twice.

"Hawley," Cynthia greets and turns to the woman sitting in the chair.

"You here for Crane?"

"Sure am but looks like Yollie's got him tied up," she laughs.

A glance in the mirror and Crane recognizes Sophie Foster. She's one of his more subdued clients. Wash and dry. A Trim. Don't mess with the bangs, no colour, no straightening.

"My hand cramped on her braids, so I'm giving it a little rest," she gestures over to the sink and meets eyes with Crane in question. "But I can get you started if you like?"

Crane gives a subtle nod, calling over his shoulder while he concentrates. "She's fantastic Sophia, I have my doubts letting her get her hands on you though, you might never want me again!"

"Oh she's that good, is she?" Sophie drawls, amused as she follows his colleague.

"It wouldn't be the first time I'd swiped someone from under his nose," Cynthia cajoles, shooting him a wink and getting Sophie situated. She throws the cape on and looks up again. "What have you got Hawley, please say that's my castor oil."

Nicholas Hawley, self proclaimed pirate and sailor of seven seas, is their supplier. He gets everything they could ever want, and travels out often to fetch the latest from Europe, and the holy grail essentials from the Islands. He digs around in his bag and begins pointedly lining off one bottle after another, each full with a dark slowly sloshing thick liquid.

Crane's mouth quirks as he hears the ' _clink clink clink_ of them being laid out on the counter, amused.

That's nine, he thinks, hands turning under and over as he approaches the end of this braid. _Eleven_ , his brows lift, _impressive._ He looks up in the mirror and sees Yolanda's mouth twitching.

Fifteen----

"Oh come now," Crane huffs, turning around and then barking a laugh at Cynthia's shocked and infuriated expression.

" _Nick!_ " she gasps.

He shrugs and then gestures to a crate he'd set on the floor. "And there's about twenty more in there."

"Nick where am I supposed to _store_ all of this----"

"Dunno sweetheart but you nearly bit my head off last time when I forgot, so, I thought I'd make it up to you, _ten fold_ ," he grins widely, a picture of innocence that is so false no one has any choice but to laugh. Cynthia blinks and presses a hand to her forehead, presumably to quell the headache Hawley has given her.

Cynthia didn't start having migraines until Hawley started delivering for them. It's something of a sport to him to see how much he can vex her.

The answer is very much, and _often._

"Hawley I fear if you continue to annoy Cynthia, we'll be fluffing your curls at a morgue-----"

"Aww, Crane, you feeling neglected, stud?"

Ichabod feels his face flush a furious crimson and Nick's laughter rings through the room.

The water runs.

The shampoo foams, suds, bubbles.

Dryers blast.

Hair falls, is swept discarded.

Heads turn.

Voices exclaim. "I love it!"

"Oh my God is that me?"

"You've out done yourself!"

Cynthia and Crane shares smiles, count the till, and flip the sign closed for another day.

* * *

 

So they thought.

Rapping at the door. Cynthia looks up from where she tidies her station, perplexed, squinting out into the darkness.

"Is that the door?" Crane asks, equally dumbfounded.

"Looks like it," With a toss of her head Cynthia ambles forward, making motions, gesturing and pointing to the sign. "We're closed! Come back tomorrow!"

The knock persists until the person presses their face close to the glass and begins shouting.

It takes a moment of squinting before Cynthia lets out a delighted cry of surprise. Before Crane can object she flips the lock and swings the door wide. Wet leaves and a piece of trash flutter into the door and the individual stomps out wet shoes, squelching in the door mat and Crane grimaces as his pristine floor turns wet and grimy as the person keeps tracking inside. It's only when he looks up to demand an explanation from Cynthia that he lays eyes on the little pixie she's just let in.

"Abbie? What are you doing here you know we're closed."

"I have an emergency."

Cynthia regards her calmly.

"Well." Abbie throws back her hood. "I need my hair done."

A raised brow. "Done, how."

"Just some brai---

"Nope."

"Cynthia."

"No! My hand's been cramping on me on and off all day, Abbie, I can't I----" Cynthia pauses, turning over her shoulder.

Crane, on his part, has been frozen like a statue, taking in the sweet open face, almond shaped brown doe eyes, the cute nose,full lips, and the distracting amount of curves embodied in her small frame. His mouth hangs slightly open. There's a niggling sensation in his brain, a probing feeling that says she's familiar somehow but from where----

"Crane?" Cynthia coos. "Crane?"

Snapping his mouth shut he swallows. "Hmmm?"

"This is Abbie. Abbie Mills."

He frowns, trying to understand why Cynthia says the name as though it should mean something to him. "A pleasure," he replies unsurely, striding forward.

Abbie tilts her head back to lock eyes with him, her gaze bores into him, searching. "No."

"I beg your pardon?" he blusters.

"Cynthia, no," Abbie continues, ignoring him.

The woman cocks her hip, arms folded. "It's him or bust. Why did you come so late?"

"Do you have any idea how hard it is to get around solo without making a stir----"

"My hands are sore, Abbie. You can ask him, they seized about five times on me today, I had to cancel appointments. So, are you gonna let Crane do your hair?"

His heart rate spikes. "Cyn----" he interjects.

Abbie rolls her eyes and rounds on him again. "Well can you do it?"

"…..It's….It's past our operating hours……"

Cynthia arches a brow at him, chastising and incredulous.

"I'll pay double. I just need it done, and I don't trust any of those 'stylist's out there to know what to do with my hair. But if Cynthia will vouch for you I'll give it a shot."

For the first time, Ichabod's hands tremble, nervous. "Have a seat." he says, voice calm and smooth as ever, which is a relief.

"I've brought my own," She offers readily, rummaging in a bag and unearthing the packages of hair in brown and black waves.

"Excellent." he says, still making eyes at Cynthia.

"You're safe with him, Abbie, I promise. Be in touch next time you're in town, alright?"

With an encouraging nod, Cynthia finishes gathering her things and makes a swift exit, leaving Abbie and Crane alone.

He takes a steadying breath and turns on her. "Well, Miss Mills. What is your vision?"

"My vision, huh?" her mouth turns up in amusement. "Braids and waves. Can you manage?"

"Is that a _challenge?_

Abbie meets his gaze in the reflection and sees offence there. Affronted that she would question him, it's almost as if she can hear him say 'In  _my_ salon?" 

"On my timeline? I don't have much recourse. Let's see what you've got, hot shot."

" _Ichabod_.  _Crane_." he corrects, disgruntled. 

She smirks and offers her hand. "Then call me Abbie."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They meet at last! interesting start for these two.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abbie gets her hair did.

"So, Abbie. Tell me, what is it you do?"

"Isn't it a bit late for chit chat?"

He stills, glaring down at her. "It _is_ , a bit lateto be sitting in my chair as if it were our daylight hours," he retorts, pointedly glancing at the clock overhead. "But _here you are_ , so I'm going to conduct myself as if this was a regular appointment. So yes, we will **_chit chat_**."

"You really don't know who I am," she muses.

"It's irrelevant as I am already giving you special treatment anyway?" he counters, one brow raised saucily at her when she looks up in the mirror.

Her lips twitch. "I'm…..I'm an artist."

"Ah," he moves slowly, gently, parting her hair. He's deliberate, tenderas his fingers work through the curls. A timeless hand, patience in his every digit and caress of his palm. An unwanted, inappropriate degree of curiosity flits through her brain, wondering of the other capabilities of his hands."Your preferred medium?"

"You're getting nosey," she chastises mildly.

"I'd argue you're getting defensive." he replies in kind, not perturbed at all.

He's had them in all ranges and kinds by now. Chatty clients, stoic ones, nervous ones who are horrible at conversation and opt for pleasant agreeable noises instead. Ones who pour their heart out unexpectedly when he innocently asks "What inspired the change?"

A failed relationship.

That bastard _cheated_ on me.

I'm tired of trying to be what everyone else wants me to be.

Done trying to look like other girls.

I just want to be someone else----I'm _tired_ of who I am.

But very few, hem and haw the way Abbie, does.

Playfully feeding him bit by bit and then reeling the bait back in. As if she's going to be forthcoming only to retreat.

It requires a little more investment on his part, and curiosity, to get a conversation to flow. But he can see in the slight fidget of her fingers in her hands, she'd really rather be out of here sooner than later.

"I'm not defensive," she shoots back and he smirks. "Stop it." she laughs lightly, non committal. "It's just late, and I've got a flight leaving at six, and, it's just a lot. You know?"

He nods agreeably. "I understand. Well. " As he has done so many times before with others, he lays his hands gently on her shoulders, leaning in for a conspiratorial whisper----it's part of his manner, he's always this way----and yet, the moment seems vaguely more intimate than it ever has before.

She smells, very nice.

Her head turns slightly to catch his eyes and there's a brief twinkle in her gaze, a flash of teeth like a glinting star.

"Ready?" he asks.

For the first time her silence seems more benevolent than the cagey demeanour she had before. This time her quiet is gentle, sweet as she gives him a soft smile and nods imperceptibly.

"You're in good hands, trust me,"

Abbie doesn't answer, just sits back and let's him work.

* * *

 

After, when she was done, and it was creeping toward 2am, and she counted off bills into his hands. He was half drowsy by then and half stuffing the money back in her hands but she was equally drowsy and kept giving it back.

"That's too much"

"No it's not enough, you did an amazing job---"

"I can't in good conscience----"

"Look will you just take my damn money?" she'd moaned, exasperated, finally, desperate to depart had all but thrown the bunch at him and began gathering her belongings.

"Thank you again, Cynthia was right about you."

He'd nodded sleepily, barely stifling a yawn. "No problem at all."

"Liar," she chortled.

"See you," he called, waving her off, turning around to start cleaning and putting his things away, again.

She'd paused at the door, glancing over her shoulder at him coyly. Her braids were beautifully done, swinging down her back, the bouncing flirty curls giving her a playful yet sensual baring, especially when she batted her eyes at him, as she was doing now. When he looked up and saw her still lingering there in the door she flashed a proper smile at him, the sort that made his heart stutter.

"You might," she said thoughtfully, rocking back on her heels. "What was your name again?"

"Ichabod Crane,"

Abbie nodded, a finger to her lips, thoughtfully, "I'll remember that" And with a wink, she licked out the door.

* * *

 

It was a few days later, the tv on in the afternoon, one of those entertainment programs. Some stylized polished personalities chitter chatter away about new exciting projects, concerts, films, they're on set for a romantic comedic drama. Crane glances up at the screen only occasionally, just to keep up with what his client is talking about. It'scolumnist Zoe Corinth today. She lives and breathes media. All forms. She's in for her usual fluff and curl. She hit on him aggressively when she first arrived in town and it had taken Cynthia glaring firmly at her that he was not to be bothered or else she would be shown out----before Zoe finally backed off. She comes in to talk his ear off now while getting herself primped.

"Oh! I've heard of this one, it's looks good."

"Mhmm." Crane muses, studying the length he just cut and promenading around to check the symmetry.

"It's been a wild ride.  You get to interact with, so many unique, and difficult themes, My character is faced with some very complicated choices, and it's been a joy, but also a challenge to tap into that, bring those to life."

He pauses. He knows that voice. Turning over his shoulder he looks up at the screen, and it's her.

"I can't wait to see your work," the host enthuses, beaming brightly. "And by the way, your hair, looks, amazing. Where do you get it done?"

She pauses, smiling like she's keeping a secret. "Bean pole back home that got a way with his hands. Hooked me up."

 _Bean pole_ he thinks, aghast, feeling his face warm. 

"Oh so you're not sharing where," the host pouts.

She laughs. "No, I'm keeping him my little secret." There it is, that wink again at the camera. A casual toss of ebony waves and braids over her shoulder. She looks dazzling. Crane feels warm all over and a little bit like he's floating.

"Well, best of luck so excited to see it when it opens,  Abbie Mills on set of 'One Last Fling', opening-----"

"Ichabod?" Zoe calls curiously, wondering why he's just, paused in the midst of doing her hair.

"Hmm?Oh, oh, sorry Zoe, I must have, spaced."

She looks him over skeptically. "You, spaced."

Cynthia hums to herself the chair over, letting the dryer blow a pretty head of pastels colours dry. She casts a sparing glance in Crane's direction, smiling mischievously to herself. _Recognize her now?_

Indeed, now he does.

That was four years ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, bet he remembers her now.


	5. Chapter 5

Present

December, 2018

It's mild, for December, Christmas, quite literally around the corner. To say business has been hopping would be an understatement. The years since her first met Abbie Mills their client list exploded, in no small part to her eventually letting it slip where she had her hair done. They were now operating on a more strictby appointment basis than they had before. They'd renovated to something a little more posh and pristine. Mainly new paint and opening up of space at the back for additional stylists earning apprenticeship.

In some ways the dream has outgrown him and Cynthia both. Something bigger and grander than they had set sights on. And honestly, though their passion for their craft never wanes, there is an edge to the shop now that feels distinctly a bit more like 'work.'

Crane walks into his establishment to open shop and pauses at the sight of the lights already on.

"Cynthia?"

"Mmph!" She springs to her feet, half chewing a donut. "Morning!" she splutters as she swallows.

"Morning….." he replies slowly. "I thought I was opening this morning,"

"Yes but----"

The sound of the toilet flushing causes him to raise a brow. Nick ambles casually out from their restroom, passing a hand lazily on Cynthia's hip, it's a mere gentle pat as he passes but she doesn't step away or glare at him for it. Instead she seems to…..hide a grin. Oh, well this is interesting.

"My cars on the fritz,"

"Oh no." Crane frowns. "They're calling for snow tonight,"

Cynthia sighs, weary. "I know. But anyway, Nick saw me on the bus stop and gave me a ride. And we stopped for coffee and donuts?" she wheedles, offering the box up to his holy altar. Crane's eyes widen, looking over the selection.

"Oh, these, these are from that new shop aren't they----"

Nick beams. "They're spectacular. Got you a coffee too, doll face here insisted you're unbearable without your first cup."

Crane grins " _Doll face_ "

"Have a good day Nick," she says meaningfully and he shoots her a grin with a two fingered salute.

"Have a good day, Cinnabon----"

"BYE!"

Laughing, Hawley waves to Crane and ducks out the door. Alone in the shop Crane turns on his best friend with interest.

 _"Cinn-a-bon_ ,"

"Crane----"

"You're flirting with Hawley." his eyes dance with mischief as he reaches for a the coffee on the counter and bites into his bacon topped donut.It has gone on for years, Nick wearied of taunting Cynthia outright and opted for flirtation instead. Although, this is the first instance that Crane can recall, in which she's flirted, back.

"You flirt with him too" she fires back.

"I do not _flirt_ with Hawley, _he_  flirts with me,"

"You like it."

"I don't-----" Crane huffs. "This is about you suddenly tittering around him when you've never bestowed him more than a glare"

"He's……he's…….."

"Infuriating? Is that something you're into Cynthia? infuriating men?" he teases.

"Pfffft. If I enjoyed having my buttons pushed that much Crane I'd have come on to you eons ago."

Crane chokes and Cynthia smirks her satisfaction.

"Nick is a nice guy, and I don't know, this morning was just easy. It was just a little flirt anyway, why are you making such a production out of it."

He lifts his shoulder in a shrug, taking a swig. " You're crushing on him." he surmises."And that's fine. I don't see you look, happy like that often. It was nice."

"Even if it is Hawley?"

"If he'll make you happy, of course."

"You sure you're not just jealous----"

"Cynthia, Hawley is not my type, whether he has gorgeous hair or no."

She gives him a look.

"Well it's clearly well taken care of and I respect people who groom themselves!"

"You know," she touches a finger daintily to her lip, pondering. "I think it's been a while since I've seen you date. If Hawley's not your type then who is?"

He shifts uncomfortably. He's tried, sure, but a particular introduction years ago has since seemed to colour nearly every interaction he's had. And everything ends, poorly.

"I think we're supposed to open a business in a few minutes, _don't you_?" he cuts in tersely.

"Hey." Cynthia dodges in front of him, noting the shift in tone. "Hey. Crane. Crane?" she searches his eyes, hands landing on his shoulders. "You okay?

Crane blusters, turning his head, "Cynthia," he admonishes.

"Someone hurt you?"

He scoffs. Hurt him? an understatement.

"Is that it?"

"I……It has been proven in the past that I am aggressively incompatible with a vast variety of personality types….." ---and I am positive the same would prove true with her---- "I don't get close enough to anyone to get hurt."

Hard to get close to anyone else when I've weighed anchor elsewhere anyway. I'd shake her if I could but she always reels me in, and does she bother to notice? Why should she care? Besides how ridiculous, how stupid to keep pining after her for all this time----what kind of simpering idiot, what kind of fool would she take me for if I tried to say something now? Her life is too full, too busy, to bustling to make room for me, awkward, and----

"Crane-----"

With a solid shake, he steps away from his friend declaring cheerily, "I'm flipping the sign!"

Cynthia's hands fall to her sides. She knows when he's telling her to back off, but she can't help the niggling feeling that something dark just settled on Crane. "And you're sure you're okay with me and-----"

"For the last bloody time Cynthia I'm not interested in _boning_ Hawley!"

"Crane, I'm hurt." Nick is standing in the door and Crane takes a deep breath wishing the ground could open up and swallow him whole.

"I should go back to bed and start this whole day over," he grumbles, scrubbing a hand across his face. 

Nick chuckles again and nods to Cynthia. "You need a ride home? I can be back when you close up shop?"

"Sure, Nick. Thanks."

A wink. "Anytime Cinnabon"

"Stop _calling_ me that." she scolds, but there's laughter in her tone.

"Alright, I'm really going now. But hey Crane if you change your mind on the shag, let me know eh?"

" _Get. **Out**_."

* * *

 

2014

Cynthia and Crane went to see 'One Last Fling' in theatres the weekend it opened. He had sat there, watching in stunned shock.

The plot, the characters, so morally ambiguous, if not corrupt, at turns charming and horrifying and he could hardly keep his balance from one shocking revelation to another. Most astonishing though was how Abbie held herself at the centre of this chaos, a grounding force, her presence drew the eye with her every entrance into a frame. She was a fire that lit sparks in her peers and they seemed to feed off of her energy. The scenes became live and crackling.

He'd blushed furiously at some of the heated scenes that had filled the screen. It was certainly a more intimate, ungoverned sideof any of his clients Crane had ever seen, and not for lack of propositions. He's made it a strict rule not to become involved with the salons patrons.

Sure he flirted and was friendly with them all, but never let himself dropped defences long enough to entertain any sort of attraction. Not to mention he'd managed to build up a sort of work persona that didn't translate well into his personal sphere, at any rate. In his chair, you get Crane the Great, the conjuror and tamer of manes. In the street?

A man who cooks, horribly, but does so anyway, because he enjoys it. Who though still holds the skill to defend himself if accosted, still recalls vividly what it means to be viewed as strange or something as a curiosity for his profession.

And also who kept to himself, so much during school, the damage having already been done by bullying, much of his socializing begun, and ended in his salon chair. Cynthia had only managed to befriend him because they shared common interest. And she was rather, insistent on his friendship, getting him out of his shell.

So Crane is an entirely different man than people would make him out to be, keeps his worlds, neat, tidy, separate, and never once has ogled the person who sits in his chair, thinking to fan any flames of carnal desire.

And yet he'd found it stirring in him aggressively at the sight of Abbie writhing and grinding against her lover in their stolen scenes. Forbidden, gratifying, freeing. Her head tossed back in abandon, her braids, his handiwork, swaying tantalizingly as her lips collided with the man----and he'd found himselfcrossing his legs and situating the bag of popcorn just so as Cynthia dug around the bag. "This is so juicy. Wait till her fiance finds out!" Cynthia had giggled, lapping up the drama happily.

On Cranes end he was suffering a dire internal conflict. He'd felt in a way as if he had somehow breached client trust to see Abbie in this way.

Now that he knew who she was, he had recognized her from previous work, smaller roles, less demanding and eye catching---although this seemed to be a breakout role for her, and for much reason. It seemed especially challenging, steamy scenes aside.

He was tormented by images of Abbie in passionate rapture that night as he'd tried to sleep. A sinking, horrible feeling that he now had inappropriate feelings, ideas about her, and vowed to himself that first chance he got he would be apologizing to her for seeing her in this light.

That had been foolish of him.

*

"Abbie!" Cynthia chimed happily some weeks later as the author of his fantasies strode into the salon. The hour was late, like last time.The beautiful sprite flung her arms wide and greeted her. "We saw your film! You were amazing! It was so good! It was incredible, had so much depth but oh my gosh, the end! I can't believe the end!"

Abbie had chuckled bashfully. "And what did the stork over there think?"

"The _stork_ has a **_name_** ," he had grouched irritably, almost all of his remorse fleeing his brain. She was absolutely maddening. Her arrival seemed to have made all his hairs stand on end.

"Crane," she amends with agrin and his heart stuttered.

"You remembered," he said, awestruck. So obviously so that Abbie bestowed him with a glimmering smile.

"Of course I did. Could never forget hands like _yours_ , Ichabod Crane."

Well now he was red, he knew it. Felt it all over him, the heat of embarrassment flooding him. He cleared his throat. "I'm told they're memorable."

"Oh," she continued knowingly, " _They are._ But, tell me, what did you think?"

"There were too many sex scenes," he'd blurted out and then gone wide eyed. That didn't come out right, that's not what he meant nor how he meant it----

Blinking, disbelieving doe eyes as she coughed a laugh, " _Excuse me?_ "

"I meant, there was so much of you, and the fellow, and It……"

Abbie continued to look at him pointedly, a cross between perplexed and amused.

"What I mean to say is, I… hadn't been prepared to see you that way, and I……I'm sorry that…."

"Sorry?"

He gestured vaguely. "That I saw you, that way, it feels like a breach, of some sort, and….."

"But, it was a movie." Abbie reiterated. "A publicly viewed film. Not…." she chuckled, swatting Cynthia's arm. "Not a home made _sex tape,_ Crane. There's nothing, wrong with what you saw, how I was seen, I mean, that's what you were meant to see"

Her eyes locked with his in a way that seemed to lance into his soul and challenge him, dare him to argue.

But was I meant to have it seared in my brain, he'd almost hissed. Was I meant to even now, wonder how much of your ecstasy was artificial and manufactured and how much of that would play true to life? Was I meant to suddenly desire you?

He'd opened his mouth to retort but then clamped it shut. She was right, of course. It was her job, and a well done one, and she had asked about his opinion on the movie and all he could do was basically admit that his brain had stuck on her naked form and now he was wishing that lightening could strike him dead, right there, in the shop, turn him into a pile of sooty ash, anything to escape this embarrassing, demoralizing encounter.

"They were too hot for you, is that it?" she'd teased. "Keeping you up at night?"

His mouth was dry but chugging the nearest bottle of water would give him away.

"Your nuance of character was remarkable," he said instead, desperately aiming to redirect the conversation.

Her eyes were dancing with excitement, the way a predator anticipated capture of their prey and he knows she means to continue ribbing him----for whatever reason, she seemed to take a sort of pleasure in scandalizing him, pushing him.

"You didn't judge her? She's supposed to be getting married after all."

"The film is a study in duty and fulfillment and the lengths at which one will go to find or subvert it. You played it….well….with enthusiasm and passion….." he croaked.

It hadn't only been the steamy scenes that clung to his memory, but bits of heartfelt meaningful dialogue between her and the romantic lead. The ferocity and naked vulnerability that would surface in her eyes and had made him almost believe she was whispering these confidences and insecurities to him, as if _they_ were lovers, and oh---- _ **damn it**_. He cursed inwardly, understanding it fully in that moment, sweeping his gaze over her, taunting him again with that smile and flinging her hair over her shoulder.

He'd developed a crush.

A crush on a movie star.

"So, Crane, are you going to do my hair?"

It will pass, he tried to convince himself, forgetting to argue the fact that the salon would be closing in half an hour. You fell for the character, that's all.

Later, when she sighs, lashes fluttering,as he washes her hair tenderly, he will firmly, repeatedly remind himself of this.

To no avail.

Just a crush.

It will pass.

* * *

 

Present.

Crane works efficiently rendering a sporting pixie cut. In the reflection of the mirror, someone under a dryer peruses a magazine.

Abbie's face gazes back at him from the cover. Hers, side by side with her latest co-star. His stomach churns. As if he hasn't endured this enough over the months, years.

The same speculative headlines, and who knows if he ever knows the truth of the matter by the time she's here in his chair.

"Steaming up the big screen."

"Is this more than an on screen romance?"

"Their off site meetings"

"Her visit to his condo!"

He will not gag. He will not, throw up, the way he did, the first time.

 

Just a crush.

It will _pass._

He sighs wearily. 

It did _not._


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> flash back to Abbies second visit to the salon. A little more backstory with Crane.

2014

"I'm sorry, about before," she says suddenly. He startles but recovers quickly as he clears out her hair with the wide toothed comb. "I'm sorry if I embarrassed you," theres a shy, prying lilt to her voice, as if suddenly, she's grown aware she has the power to offend him and now wishes she hadn't.

"Never mind." he replies. "So. what do you want done."

"I'm leaving for another set soon, they want something sleek so,"

"Sew in." He summarizes, glancing over at the farwall where they keep the packs of hair. Cynthia has begun stocking a shelf for them along with haircare products. The obscene amount of jamaican castor oil glimmer dimly in the shop lighting. "Black brown, straight." he murmurs, scanning down each row before his eyes light on the desired texture. "Sixteen ninety-five a pack. You'll need," he eyes her a moment. "Four or six packs? Let's start with four and I'll add as we go, I imagine you prefer a lighter head if you can manage"

Abbie regarded him, mildly impressed. "How could you tell."

His gaze travels over her, "You have a slender neck," he rattles off with a sniff. "Delicate edges. And at the moment, a thinner texture, you need a deep conditioning and-----"

"Are you done telling me about myself?" she chortles, delighted.

He flushes. "Sorry. But it is my….calling, to notice, these things." The room goes quiet as he greases her scalp.

"How did you get into this anyway," she asks. "Not just hairdressing, but knowing how to do ….."

"Black hair?"

"Well hey,"

He smiles. It's fleeting, brief, escaping his features almost as if he regrets it but it makes Abbie's heart give a small leap. It may be the first time in their two encounters, that she's made Crane do something other than snip and snark at her.

"I love hair, period." He says. "The more variety, the more variables, the better. I browsed all of the magazines. And…..when I discovered all of the textures and possibilities of tighter curl patterns I just….." his hands still and his eyes seem to go briefly, far away. "It was like a world opened."

"Well," Abbie prods. "Go on."

"Tanya Jenkins," He murmurs softly, recalling his current task. He recites. "She'd had permed hair for the longest while. I could never have touched it because, back then, we were in high school, and I wasn't equipped, qualified to not make a mess of it. And besides, there weren't many…..black women, to practice on. I didn't dare start dying until I was in my final year, and then only if they came in naturally blond or pre-lightened elsewhere, I…..I was so afraid still, even then, of screwing up. Of somehow, damaging their hair."

"You were nervous."

"You sound surprised."

"You don't cross me as the type----"

"Well I didn't cross many people as the _'type'_ back then'" he cuts in bitterly and Abbie retreats, sensing she's hit a nerve. She goes silent and wonders if he'll continue, and if he does, vows to keep her mouth shut this time.

Ichabod Crane is unlike any man, she's ever met. And certainly unlike anyone she's ever met in the beauty industry. She'd gone through stylists before. However even though she smiled through chatter with them fully aware they were making a muck of her tresses---they had been engaging, fun, flirty, made you feel welcome. Crane's manner is a shock to her system, to say the least, and it irks her. She's almost positive he isn't this way with other clients. She has no reason to believe he's not, she's never seen him in action other wise, but there's an underlying hostility to him that she feels shift into the room the minute they're alone.

She wishes it wasn't there.

It feels like eons before he deigns to speak again, so out of blue and from an odd angle she struggles to figure out where they are in the conversation he's started, mid beat.

"A six foot one giant with a penchant for hair does not Mr. Popularity make." he mutters quietly. "However many heads your hands have touched on Saturday, come Monday morning there are few friendly smiles or remembering faces. But divulge the very contents of their diary come the next saturday again. Rinse and repeat." he gives a short bitter laugh at his own joke.

Her stomach sinks. She doesn't respond. She notes the bygone sadness to his voice.

"I hadn't figured out how to chatter yet, back then. Could you turn your head please, ah, thank you." She cants her head just to the side as he turns the braid, working deftly.

"When she cut it all off. I was devastated. It was sleek and stiff and  dry before she did it, but I'd felt for the her, the loss of a shield against the world. A way in which to fit in. Tanya had the shortest hair in school now, rivalled only by a boy named Nathaniel who's hair grew in patches. Childhood cancer survivor. There was a scar at the base of his neck. Sweetest boy you could ever meet. But anyway, there was Tanya, short little crop of hair and, they teased her for looking like a boy. Called her horrible things but---ah, _blast it_." She feels him unravelling, and then starting over. "That's what I get for letting my mouth runaway with me."

He's talking more now, but still in a way that feels  both near and far at once. 

"Anyway Tanya didn't care. Her hair grew back, as it must, and when it did it was so pretty. So shiny and dark. And of course people wanted to _pet_ it, it was revolting------"

"Ugh" Abbie groans, all to familiar with the agony of having to fend off inquisitive white, trespassing hands. It is not lost on her the irony of letting this man weave his fingers through her hair now.

"Exactly." He agrees. Then stills."Is this, is this uncomfortable for you?"

"What? Why?"

"Because I'm……the first night when Cynthia suggested I do your hair you staunchly said 'no'"

"I----"

He arches a brow, daring her to lie. To insult his intelligence.

Abbie turns sheepish. "…… I'm sorry, I shouldn't have judged----"

"It's a skepticism that I've grown accustomed to. But I would never force anyone to sit in my chair. So if you're uncomfortable, I know there's a certain dynamic to hair and beauty standards and white people and----"

"Whoa whoa whoa, Crane, Ichabod,"

Settle down, Crane scolds himself, wishing his heart wouldn't beat so fast at the sound of his name.

"I was a little weary but you're a professional and you did the job excellently and, I can tell you care. So. I'm, I'm fine here. But thank you so much for asking, for considering….that." She bites her lips together. "Not many do, believe me."

He's silent another beat before he takes a deep breath, a nod, and resumes his work.

"Not many get it," Abbie stresses. "Hair is many things but for me…..to society, there's _so much_ ….I'm blabbering," she laughs, suddenly uncomfortable with the fervour that rises in her own voice. How many times has she had to alter appearance from one role to another, herself and peers, crowded into ill suited wigs, fumbling, inexperienced, unexposed hands bashfully declining to touch her head. Outright admitting a lack of experience. Leaving her to style herself.

Her hair is a thing of tremendous beauty but it will always carry with it a mystery for those too ignorant to explore it honestly. It will always set her apart, even in her attempts to 'blend' in.

"Tell me more about Tanya." she says, after she calms down.

"Tanya didn't give  a damn." he continues, slowly. "And when it was growing back she did a million things with it. Twists, cornrows, puffs on either side of her head, such perfect volume, I was in awe..... they made her look just, so precious. I "

"You had a crush on her didn't you."

Crane coughs lightly. "She went out with Nathaniel," he says, evasive. "Anyway her hair was growing back and in it's natural state and I was just starting to try my hand at extensions and…..well, she said she couldn't afford a hairdresser." He bites his lips together. "But she was going to prom with Nathaniel and wanted something different. She came to me." His voices drops off in a sort of disbelieving gasp, still, after all this time. "She sought me out, from the same girls who had berated and badgered her about her short cut….no doubt they probably teased her for even asking, but then she showed up in my kitchen, first thing that Saturday, and I told all the other girls I was busy. Tanya was shy about prying eyes trying to peak at what I would be doing to her hair. In that way, she was…..my first."

Abbie wags her brows at him and he blusters out a laugh.

"You know what I mean." he scolds, face turning red.

"I do but you're adorable flustered."

Tomato red, he thinks, I'm sure I'm tomato red. He clears his throat. "Tanya continued to come to me." he pauses, thoughtful. "Her andNathaniel had the hair brained idea of getting married straight out of high school---it was an uproar at the time. But…." he shrugs in an off handed manner but Abbie can see how much the moment meant to him. "She came to me. She trusted me to make her beautiful, in her glory, in her right. And…..I like to think that I did."

"Crane----"

"Tanya, trusted me. And I realized there was such a bond, an intimacy and trust to be found in someone turning themselves over to you, I knew it before, but her trust was a blessing and an honour. And I respected the privilege……I come to this point, in a roundabout way to thank you, as well, I suppose. For your trust."

Abbie can't quite work out why she feels like crying. Only she knows something inadvertently intimate and precious was just shared with her and there were glimmers of someone else, buried even deeper beneath the brusque facade he shows her, and it tugged her heart in a way, made her feel unbearably sad.

"Your turn." He murmurs, ripping open the first pack of hair.

"Hmm?" she hiccups and rubs at her eyes, feigning something has gotten in them.

"How do you know Cynthia?"

"Hasn't she told you?"

"You know she's given to hyperbole." he huffs. Abbie musters a laugh.

"Community theatre. She was on wardrobe and makeup."

Such an innocuous, quaint way for these two, spirited, sharp women to meet. He nearly laughs but bites it back. He's conscious of having over shared tonight. To laugh with her, to start feeling too familiar, is not going to help him get over her sooner.

* * *

 

Present

"Closing time." Cynthia chimes happily, flipping the sign. Crane sighs and stretches, massaging his neck. He's getting a crick in it, and his back aches from the long hours standing. He reaches to loosen the knot in his tie and glances out the window. The forecast didn't lie. Flurries dance outside the window.

"Are you sure you're fine getting home?"

Cynthia wraps a scarf tightly around her neck and shoulders her bag. "Nick said he'd---there he is."

"Speak of the delve." Crane muses as Cynthia shoots him a glare. Nick bounds up to the door as Cynthia lets him in. He makes a show of shivering and dusting flakes from his hair. "Baby it's _coooooold_ outside." he chatters.

"I don't think I dressed warm enough----"

"Well that's what you've got _me_ for." he winks.

Crane watches once more in astonishment as Cynthia _giggles_.

"Cynthia are you _sure_ you don't have a fever?" he muses.

" ** _Shut up_** , Crane."

"Yeah, shut up Crane. Come on, Cinnabon."

" _Nick_ "

"Oh I'm never going to get tired of _that_." Crane taunts and then bids them farewell.

He continues tidying, pausing on the magazine he'd seen Abbie's face on earlier. Against his better judgement he opens it, idle little flip through, he tells himself, not that he's searching for the alleged story---"When will you stop doing this to yourself, Crane." He mutters. "What will it take for you to let her go." Crumpling the magazine, he tosses it in the trash.

Abbie's face and the handsome co-star, look up at him from the trash. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A flash back. And a surprising present.

2014

Abbie turns her head in the mirror, flipping the sleek strands from one side to the other, pleased. It's not a favoured look on herself, but, it still suits.

"Well. Does it meet your scrutiny."

"Are you this snippy with everyone?"

Only you, he thinks solemnly. Maybe if we're hostile I won't entertain the frivolous notion of being hopeful.

"Part of my charm, I'm told."

"Yeah well they tell you fantastic lies." she grins. In spite of himself, his lips twitch back, amused. _Victory!_ "Are you still in touch with them? Tanya and Nathaniel? did they have children?"

"Oh, yes. Three. All girls."

He stops there. She leans forward wondering if he would continue but it seems his benevolence of speech is spent.

She begins to gather her things, digging out her wallet. He barely counts the money.

"Aren't you going to ask what project I'm starting?"

His brows lift. "Pray tell. What project are you starting"

"Supernatural, investigative drama. Supposed to air this fall" 

"Intriguing."

"And I've got another film coming up, called Measures, I'll be bouncing around between sets."

"Miss Mills----"

"Abbie. You've had your hands in my head for hours. Twice now."

She's just friendly, he reminds himself. "Abbie, I'm glad you're so busy, it's wonderful news----"

"There's less sex." she blurts.

He coughs. " _Pardon me?_ "

"I mean, on the tv show, at least. If intimate scenes make you squeamish maybe avoid Measures altogether……it deals with infidelity."

"Well, I suppose fresh off yourwork on One Last Fling you're in the right frame of mind to explore it." he says off handedly, yet his eyes twinkle.

Is, is he teasing me? She wonders and feels inexplicably giddy. He has a sense of humour!

"It's a gripping script, it tackles some really deep rooted insecurities, the sex, is more like, a coping mechanism, distraction from the deeper issues the couple faces."

Crane finishes cleaning his combs and leans back on his counter, arms folded, head cocked curiously to the side. "Exactly what is it about these morally corrupt characters that calls to you?"

Her mouth snaps shut. Well she hadn't thought of it _that_ way.

"What is it, that you find, engaging, about portraying people that struggle so to remain loyal, trustworthy? People who run and hide before making a mess of themselves, only to right their wrongs after?"

Abbie feels herself flush, skin hot with something cousin to embarrassment.Why does it feel like he's suddenly accusing her of something?

How does he go from aloof to just shy of playful and now to heated focus so quick? _Who is this man?_ The man of grace and poise but a disposition like a  tide at sea. An _ill mannered_ one.

The look on his face is complete innocence, in a manner that seems to totally detach with the subtext of his words. Like he can't fathom why now she finds it difficult to look him in the eye.

"If they're not your cup of tea you don't have to watch." She says. "Thanks for the do, it looks great."

Wait, what? He leans off the counter, heart thundering. He's offended her. He rapidly plays back the conversation and curses at the error.

"Abbie I didn't mean----I'm sorry I----"

"It's fine, Crane. Thanks again."

The bell goes ding. The door creaks shut.

He waits a beat before unleashing a yell of disgruntled frustration. "And this is why you keep to yourself. You odd, odd duck." He sighs heavily before plunking down in his own chair. " ** _Idiot!"_**

* * *

 

Present.

It's a slow drive home. He's got an older home that borders on the edge of the forest. Halfway between bustling civilization and the solace of nature.Deeper in the woods it thins out to a shore and a lake where there are a few rental cabins.Nathaniel and Tanya Jenkins-Parker 's girls come here with him in the summer. He's their godfather. Aside from hair, one thing Crane is good at, perhaps predisposed to be good at, is swimming. Long limbs grant him speed. So many races and afternoons of boisterous watery frolic.They've spent summers, holidays,all of them out by that lake, until Tanya got a new job and they'd had to move away. Six years ago now. Just as their girls were entering high school. He'd had dreams of styling their hair for their prom season----but wherethey'd gone required a plane, and until recently he'd been deathly afraid of flying. They'd sent pictures, they'd looked lovely. He only regretted it hadn't been thanks to him.

Caroline used to be there with them,along with Cynthia. This period in time was the closest he ever came to a circle of friends, before Caroline went to France, designing out of a studio there, and he shouldn't think it but if Cynthia's about to take up with Hawley he imagines that his circle is about to grow significantly smaller, if notvanish, altogether.

It'll just be him, here. As the seasons change. As time passes. A call home, bless his luck to have a parent still living, to remind him he's cared for. Unless----unless rubbish, he chastises himself. 

He sets down his bag, stomping out snow on the front mat. Glancing around at his sparsely decorated home. The tree if for show, now. Red and gold bulbs and shimmering sticks. Traditional, simple. No packages under the tree. Him and Cynthia opted to gift each other experiences rather than objects some years ago. Road trips. Shows. Trying out new restaurants, a paint night. He had his best friends company, when there was no one else.

Stretching, debating if he wants to cook or order in or rummage for leftovers, he hears music.

He frowns. It's rare anyone stays on the lake this time of year. Out by the ski lodges other side of town, sure, but out here? Unless his friends have decided to surprise him---he dare not hope. Alas, curiosity lures him back out into the snow, feet hastily shoved back into his boots and coat re-slung on his shoulders he marches back out into the quickly gathering snow, trudging the ten minute walk out to the cabin with the lights on. He snorts. Well it's certainly the cabin Tanya and Nathaniel usually use.

Throwing his shoulders back, spirit lifting, he begins a purposeful brisk march toward the door----halting only when he can hear the music more clearly piping from the house. In retrospect, this is unnaturally loud music, even if the shore is more or less deserted.

It's too loud for enjoyment unless someone deliberately wants to draw attention to themselves. Brow furrowed he stomps toward the door and knocks.

He's sure these aren't his friends now, they wouldn't make such a racket. Now he's made up his mind to knock heads with the inconsiderate renterstaying in his friends cabin when the door opens-----

Words, evaporate.

Despite the winter chill, everything in his being floods warm.

An ache, torturous, cavernous, pulls at him. His eyes burn with the sudden onslaught of unshed tears, demanding to be released.

"It's not true." She says. Hurriedly gripping his jacket and pulling him over the threshold. "Whatever you've read I swear it's not true----"

This time, he thinks, but his mind is short circuiting. It's been three months, not a word said between them. Three months of silence and aching and he shouldn't feel this way this strongly but he does.

" _What are you doing here_ ," his voice a soft disbelieving warble. "Abbie _why are you_ \----"

"I mean it," she pleads, speaking over him. Her eyes brim. " _It's not true,_ " her words are barely a whisper, looking up at him desperately. A vulnerability that is so raw it had nearly broken him with the beauty of it the last time he saw her. Before she broke him. "It's not----"

His fingers tremble, reaching for her. "Stop."

"Ichabod I----"

" ** _Stop_**."His fingers curl over her own.

"I-----"

And their lips collide. Passionately fitting together, clinging to each other. Everything within him screaming to wake up, this is just a dream, but then she sighs and pulls him further and she swings him around----how she can do that when she's so small, but it shouldn't surprise him that she can dominate him, the space, the room, his being. Has she not held sway over him from the start no matter how he tried to deny it. She kicks the door shut, flipping a lock and never lets go of him. Her smell, the feel of her, so close, so near. She's unrelenting.Doesn't let him come up for air.

She's going to drown him.

I don't care. He thinks, kissing her back. ** _I don't damning well care._**


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flash back of Abbie's life

2014

"Mills, Mills, you okay you seem out of sorts?"

"Hmm?" Abbie blinks, dazed.

She'd been running over her last conversation with Ichabod since she'd boarded the plan to be on location. Today was the first day of shooting for her supernatural show. She's running through the pilot with Big Ash Ashton.

They had amazing chemistry in the test read and he was cast immediately opposite. The whole plot is all a change of pace for her. She's never done anything that wasn't rooted in some sense of reality. And luckily, her role, a no nonsense lieutenant, relies on that grounding. Ash, is the wildcard. A man who wakes up in the present with a past to be explained, trailing behind him all hell and devil. Their characters spark instantly and the instructions as written themselves depict foreshadowing for something to bloom further between them later on down the line.

There is only one, hitch. Ash's character is married. An enchantress wife trapped between worlds. It's apparent part of their journey will be to rescue her, which begs a question about what exactly is to be done about the Lead actors 'bond' as the directors so colourfully described----but something about finding out this fact, and also her role as a disloyal girlfriend in Measures, sours her mood. Calls to mind Cranes innocent, though astute queries about her draws to these parts.

Abbie doesn't think she's a person naturally inclined to deceit. Unless one is to deem her profession a practice in deception and in which case she may have to agree----but does it reflect anything on her, personally? Why does she like to twist reality in this manner? Become someone else? had Crane a point? Why does she step so easily into the shoes of a woman who's always searching for herself, through methods that perhaps leave behind carnage.

Is there an essence, of her, in them?

"Abbie," Ash coaxes, he shoots her a wide grin. "How about I grab you a coffee and we try again?"

Abbie nods and laughs nervously. "I'm sorry I didn't sleep well"

"Don't sweat it Mills, I've got you." She watches as the tall solid bulk of him swaggers away, midnight hair falling like a river down his back. He's got a strong jaw and piercing eyes the sort of face anyone could fall for. The kind of gaze that lures you in. She likes him instantly. She knows they're going to be great friends and make the most of this endeavour together.

She focuses on giving her job her all, and less on whether or not she gives too much of herself.

* * *

 

The first break through for their characters relationship arc occurs when they film the fifth episode. Something dire, involving poisons and dimensional travel. They lock hands across a table, begging for the other to hang on, hold on, we do this together. We're in this together. Ash caresless about how much he throws himself into the part. He flays himself open so earnestly it's at once refreshing and terrifying. She used to play open, too. But Crane's words still batter in her head----she tries to shake them because it's so insidiously stupid to let a few passing words interfere with her process----what does he know? He's a hairdresser----

What could he possibly know about the craft of becoming someone else? What it means to dig deep and draw on your own soul-----yes damn it she draws on life, on herself to fill things out. She goes in, so deep to her own pains and insecurities and throws them back out to make the character live, to give them breath.

Fuck what he thinks.

* * *

 

When she's back on set for Measures she takes the same energy to the roles struggles. Her insecurities. The deep rooted,scared ones that fear abandonment, that feel threatened by a thing that seems too good. That wants so badly to be seen for the ugly she swears she is, she's desperate to manifest that ugliness, to make it tangible and real and----She snaps during filming.

They have to call it a day.

She's dug too far. Went delving too deeply and couldn't figure out where the pain of her part ended and where her own began. She broke on set in the perfect way but when the scene was done she was inconsolable.

Not being enough, is a burden that you can carry with you to the grave. It multiplies and spreads like a contagion given half the chance and she should have guarded herself a bit more closely on that. But there she was, spilling everything. Embodying, becoming the hurt creature who made a mistake and kept paying for it seven fold in a relationship with a man she loved and hurt so badly his only recourse seemed to be finding myriad ways to hurt hurt hurt her back. And because she'd failed to forgive herself her mistake the first time, thought it a just punishment and stayed. Emotional abused, neglect. Fear. Self doubt.

* * *

 

Past

Grace Abigail Mills came from a household of four. Two doting loving parents in Ezra and Lori Mills and a sister who may have liked her before she started learning to talk. Maybe Jennifer had liked her even longer than that, but if that time exists, it's been erased from Abbie's living memory.

It had been a car accident that took away mother and father from their two girls. Ezra went instantly, dead at the scene, a horrifying image blazed in her mind of his head coming clean off. She could go looking for that horror if she ventures into the recesses of her mind. She can remember saying something smart that had made him glance at her, only a moment to smile and beam at his bright daughter before the truck careened into them. Lori, died at the hospital. Abbie and Jennifer received the news while being fitted in casts and having wounds stitched. She was groaning and oblivious when they had taken her from the scene. Abbie often used to wonder if her mother had had any idea that her husband was already dead at the time. If she new her daughters had lived. Would things have been different at home if Lori had pulled through. She was thirteen when it happened. Jennifer, eighteen.

They'd been on their way to an audition for Abbie. There was a prestigious performing arts school she desperately wanted to attend and had applied for. It's a school where Jennifer had auditioned,  had even gotten in, but five years ago they hadn't been able to afford Jennifer's tuition. There had been tension in the car that day. Jennifer's brooding gaze turned out the window, oblivious to the world save for the blare of her headphones in her ears. Couldn't understand why she couldn't be with her boyfriend this weekend----"To support your sister" Lori had replied matter of fact. Abbie was anxiously muttering over a monologue, every now and again catching her mother's glimmering eye in the rearview mirror.

"You're going to do great." Lori encouraged. Jennifer glared sidelong at her mother. Perhaps not entirely oblivious to them after all. It had been an ordeal rationalizing Jennifer's hurt fury of Abbie applying for the academy.

"It's unfair, _I_ couldn't go----"

"Our circumstances were different----"

"So I'm just supposed to be a victim of circumstances? _She_ gets the opportunities I couldn't just cause she was born second? How is that fair?"

"Are we supposed to hold her back to make things even for you?" Lori asked, genuinely perplexed. "Is that what you want? Abbie hasn't even gotten in yet----"

"She will, the little brat---"

"Jennifer"

"All I know is you're playing favorites----"

"You'd have gone if we could afford it. There's nothing that you wanted that we haven't given you. You've taken other classes since to make up for the gap. Don't be this way Jenny," Lori frowned. "There's room enough in the world for you both. To have different schooling, different training, though lots of it over laps, and to make your own marks, your own careers. This has nothing to do with playing favourites. At the time we paid for a lot of extracurriculars for both of you, and then your father was laid off. You _both,_ paid the price dropping out of programs back then. But you know we're planning for you both. If there's another program out there for you----" Lori threw her arms up in the air. "Skies the limit"

But Jennifer didn't care. She'd almost retorted that if _both_ of them hadn't been taking all the same dance and theatre classes they might have afforded _her_ tuition, but she kept her mouth shut instead, brewing something dark and malicious inside.

Needless to say, the day of the wreck,Abbie never made it to the audition. And Jennifer blamed her for everything. "It's _your_ fault we were on that highway to begin with" she snapped, three days after the funeral. "It's your fault for trying out for that school---- ** _how dare you_ **try for some place I couldn't go? Who gave you the right?" Darkly pleased about Abbie's lost chance, addled with her angry grief, she'd pulled Abbie's hair dragging her down the hall to her room and threw her in, slamming the door behind her and blustering out into the cold night, to God knows where. Abbie was shocked and grief stricken by the change. She'd known, sure, that Jennifer and her were not on the best terms. But this, this marked something new. With a sinking feeling in her gut Abbie knew her life was about to take a bad turn. There would be no going back.

* * *

 

Abbieused to look up to Jennifer, back when she was young and impressionable and it's fashionable to admired older siblings----even though Jennifer seemed annoyed with her following around. Jennifer's pursuit of the limelight had served as inspiration for the younger Mills.

Lori and Ezra supported them as much as they could. Enrolled them in the same extracurriculars even though Jennifer was a couple of years ahead. She sneered when Abbie surpassed her classes so quickly----only in an effort to be on the same plane as her sister, to be just like her. Abbie was too young to understand that the reason Jennifer seemed to dislike her had less to do with Abbie not being enough and more to do with her being too much. When Abbie started winning trophies for dance competitions, scoring lead roles in their youth theatre group, Jennifer played proud older sister, seething in the chorus she'd been assigned to, time and time again. It grew worse into their teen years, when the haze finally began to lift, when comprehension solidifies properly, that nothing would heal the bond that had already been frayed, broken and burned from the beginning. Abbie stopped pushing so hard to find common ground with her elder sibling. Her passion for acting was hers, now. Abbie wanted what she did on her own merit, for her own future, her own life.

Jennifer was growing jealous over the years, picking petty fights.Anything that was Abbie's, Jennifer wanted, with such desperate vehemence it had gravely sabotaged her self esteem. 'Misplacing' the new sweater Lori had bought Abbie for a birthday. 'Accidentally' breaking the heel on Abbie's character shoes.

Their parents noticed. Had tried talking to them about it. And, in efforts to soothe Abbie's hurt, perhaps made the mistake of buying her a secret treat. A replacement for something Jennifer had taken and refused to return. Yet it persisted, andwith their parents gone, Jennifer acting as legal guardian, with all the power and authority, the situation grew infinitely worse.

Bitter, angry that she was saddled to look after the little sister that she blamed for the death of their parents----the reason she had to reroute her own life, Jennifer Maria Mills,set out to destroy the destroyer that had appeared in her life as a bouncing bundle of joy that they'd called baby sister.She told Abbie her dreams of acting were bull----"Someone like you would never, could never play lead" "You're just copying me. Trying to be me." "You tried so hard to be me you ruined our lives"

Funerals were costly. The insurance policies paid for the house, and outstanding debts. But there were the daily expenses. The college funds lock stock and barrel.

"No," Abbie fired back. " _No_ , Jenny I _respected_ you, I looked up to---"

"You _envied me you little **wretch.**_ Tried to be everything you weren't trying to be me.Get your own life."she'd spit, disgusted---raising her hand  at her before Abbie ducked under her arm and elbowed her hard out of the way.

"I have my own life. I don't act for you, anymore. I love these things because I do---"

"You love them because you were too _pathetic_ to find your own hobby, your own passion. You're just a _**bargain version of me.**_ Half formed and coming up _**short**_."

Abbie had skipped out of a school audition that week, Jennifer's vicious words ringing in her ears. And there was a bruise blooming on her cheek----a blow she hadn't seen coming---there was that too.

Their mother used to say there was room enough in the world for both of them. They could both be their own stars, shining bright, sharing that everlasting vast sky, it was clear to Abbie; there would never be nervous hand holding outside an audition room. Or adulation and praise for a part won, between sisters. No tearful, happy embraces. No shared acceptance speeches. None of that.

Their mother used to say, stick together, because each other is all you've got.

Maybe that's why it had seemed so impossible to rebel against her tyrannical sister.

Abbie was alone.Her only escape, her only peace, could be found, stepping out of who she was into someone else. It was therapeutic and a relief. Her private family hells and grief was a wealth to draw on of complicated emotions and unresolved feelings, perhaps she had Jennifer to thank for that----it's always been easy to tap into the layers of someone distraught.

And if the character was happy---really truly happy----she gladly immersed herself in the life of something unknown.That person who had joy. Who'd toiled enough to be worthy of something better.

Abbie's only friend, Cynthia Irving, was makeup and hair in the theatre troupe and had all but forced Abbie to do audition tapes behind Jennifer's back. When the acceptance letters started rolling in, envelopes torn open before Abbie could get a chance to read them, Jennifer raged.

"Uppity little **_bitch_**!" she'd cursed, smashing a lamp. "After everything I gave up for you you think you're just gonna leave me behind here? Huh? **_DO YOU?_** "

* * *

 

2014

Abbie had needed a day before going back to the Measures set. Spent the night shaking in her shower, gasping for breath. "You can't keep doing that," she chastised. "You can't keep blurring those lines----"

But her performance won her an Oscar.

And when her show with Ash got renewed early, she was expected to continue delivering those kinds of earth shattering raw performances. There were more eyes tuned into her now.And Abbie wanted this, wanted it more than anything. She wanted this career for the doting parents who'd loved her and given her the audacity to dream. She wanted it to spite the sister who kept wishing it had been Abbie in the wreck and not their mother and father. Abbie needed this to flourish, for herself.

So she kept going deep as she could stand to go, knee, shoulder, sinking under the surface, burbling for breath, into each, new, role.

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> remember when Abbie showed up at the Cabin, a little bit of back to that. 
> 
> and then a flashback, whoooo!
> 
> comments please I need them to breathe <3 hope you like this update!

Present

I don't know how we got here.

Push and pull, washing in and out of the shore.

I don't know how we went from tentative distant fond to colliding, crashing, immediate heated and shipwrecking one another.

I don't know howwe let things get so out of hand. But we're here now. I'm here.

Holding on to him for dear life because it took this long for the truth to be clear.

_I love him._

* * *

 

"Abbie," he rasps, is it a protest she wonders fleetingly, backing him down the hall. Or merely a sigh?She leaps and he catches her in his arms, crashing into a wall. _"Abbie,_ " his voice continues and she can hear the conflict in it, the delicacy of something nearly a moan of relief but insurmountable pain.

"Please," she whispers, cursing herself because it's just short of begging. Abbie Mills doesn't beg."Please Crane I----"

He pulls away and cups her cheek, locking his eyes with hers, darting to and fro. She knows he's searching her soul, like he's done before. No one undoes her like he does. So flippantly, so casually, he can pull a thread and watch her unravel. Do you understand the power you have over me she almost cries. Do you _understand_ how quickly you can, you can _cut_ me open? How deep? How much I can bleed with just the small little things you do. A gesture, a word. You undo me to my basic parts and it's terrifying to be so vulnerable----people _die_ from exposure Crane and I could die from it every moment I'm with you, but that death is when I'm alive----

He closes the gap again, and she can feel the silently waged war in the way he kisses her. The alternating gentleness to fierce, bruising passion.

 _Hurt me_. She insists, pulling him closer. I want it. I want this. _I want you._

The bite of his teeth sting but she groans into it, clutching him tighter.

"Abbie I---"

"Keep me."

He breaks away from her then, which is the absolute opposite of what she wants. "What?"

"Don't let me go, don't let me 'be free' and don't let me hide." She feels her eyes begin to brim. "Keep me, keep us, this. Crane I want----"

"You've always had me," he chokes, setting her on her feet. "The moment you sat in my chair. I was yours."

"Not yet," She whispers, reaching for him, twining their fingers. "But, will, Crane will you let me make you mine, now? And make me yours----"

His thumb strokes her cheek and he swallows. They've been here before. An aborted attempt at deepening this consuming closeness. He's so afraid his fingers tremble. 

She tips her head up, meeting his gaze. "I'll go slow."

" I don't need you to go slow, Abbie." he sighs and his eyes flutter closed, struggling to catch his breath. "I just need to be enough."

"Come here."

* * *

 

2015

"I've been nominated," Abbie whispers in disbelief, blinking, dumbstruck as she streams the announcements on her phone."I've been _nominated!_ " She shrieks with such glee that tears spring to her eyes.

"Congratulations!" Ash beams, engulfing her in a bear hug that heaves her off her feet. "I'm now acting alongside an academy nominee and I am honoured, Mills. How are we celebrating?"

"Finishing this shoot, first of all." the director snaps, grumpy about the delay but fires her a brief smile. "Congrats Mills. But let's get on with the scene."

"Come on Metcalfe give her a chance to call her loved ones and scream for a bit----"

"No." Abbie abruptly cuts them off, sharply reminded that there is no one for her to call. Parents gone. And a vengeful creature that shares her DNA, and nothing else. Maybe she's dead too, for all she knows. It's an uncharitable thought but Abbie doesn't regret for a moment that she thought it. She hopes that if Jennifer is still alive that she would have heard this news-----and will know without a doubt that Abbie is an artist in her own right. That she accomplished in spite of Jennifer trying to break her.Ash shoots her a perplexed look. "I've got no one to call." She explains, shaking out her shoulders and morphs----there's no other word for it, Ash thinks, watching as Abbie morphs into character and strides back toward the set. He watches her go, puzzled by the flash of sharp hurt that had cut across her features.

She's on all of her beats during the scene. Every line delivered flawlessly, brittle edged where there's tension. Raw, where there's pain. Guarded, when wary.

Not so different from how she is off camera, Ash thinks off handedly, noticing for the first time that Abbie's seamless transformations makes his co-star a mystery to him. It wasn't like this back in the fall, but something about her work on Measures----the film she's been nominated for Best Lead Actress----changed her. She's a shifting creature in and out of characters. He's not sure if he'd call it full Method, but certainly it plays close cousin to something just as immersive. And only a touch worrying.

There's a swarm of paparazzi buzzing around all day, no matter how they try to chase them off so they can focus.Metcalfe is snippy and irritable about itbut there's nothing to be done. They're here to follow a story. The excitement rolling off of the actress nominated for her first major award.

The draw is Abbie.

There's no turning back.

* * *

 

"Crane!"

He jolts with the curling iron in hand and shoots Cynthia a blazing glare. She stifles a snicker and bobs her head apologetically. "Cynthia," he greets, tight lipped. "Is there just cause for you nearly causing me to burn Yolanda?"

"Yeah Cynthia is there?" the woman fires an accusing look her way but Cynthia sticks out her tongue and then both women are laughing.

"I'm sorry girl. Heard some good news about a friend that's all. It's what I wanted to share with Crane."

Releasing the corkscrew curl Crane arches a brow. "Is it someone I know?"

"It is." Cynthia flicks on the tv screen and the general chatter in the salon bubbles down for just a moment. It's the academy nominations. "For Best Lead Actress, Julianna Moore, Rosamund Pike, Pandora Wilks, Serilda Abbadon, and Abbie Mills"

"Oh," Crane pants a breath in surprise. "Oh!" he gasps, thrilled. "That's great news!"

"What did I miss?" Yolanda interjects.

Cynthia ignores her and instead waves her phone. "I'm going to call and congratulate her, join me?"

He pauses, flustered. "Oh, no, I don't think that's necessary Cynthia I----"

"Go," Yolanda encourages. "I'm not going anywhere like this," she gestures to her half done head and Crane offers a brief, fragile smile.

Still, he fidgets. Caught out. He's agitated at being interrupted at work like this; it seems grossly unprofessional and part of him wants to call Cynthia out on it, and yet, he knows in her way, she's doing him a favour. He doesn't like to think it but he's sure in spite of his best efforts to be subtle about his crush on Abbie---that Cynthia may have managed to see through him anyway.

They saw Measures in theatre.

Of course.

It _shook_ him, irrevocably so.

It was different from when he'd seen her in One Last Fling----a complex romp of ulterior motives and biting characters, intimacy and comedy. No Measures was devastatingly darker, in the very essence of it's production the lighting was subdued, dark shadows and sharper contrast, the tone itself was moodier and near hopeless until the last forty five minutes. And Abbie's character from the outsetwas certifiably broken, vulnerable, damaged and so convinced that she deserved this pain it had haunted him on a level that had been far less entrancing than her last film, but in a way that kept him up for a few nights after----wondering how she survived such a gut wrenching rendering. How she kept herself intact and separate from the deep wells of pain.

Or did she bother too at all.

As luck would have it she hadn't been into the salon since the last time he'd seen her, and recalls their parting hadn't been on good terms. he'd stuck his foot in his mouth, queryingabout her motivation for the roles she chooses and it clearly rubbed her the wrong way. Not unlike before he felt as though he'd unwontedly been privy---although how much privacy is there in a theatre full of people----to a darker, more nuanced side of her, and it was growing less and less clear in his head who was the character and who was the woman. At any rate, there had been no hiding how affected he'd been by the emotional scenes. He'd teared up and looked away on several occasions and even afterwards Cynthia had pat his hand a couple of times as if to remind him that it was all fake. Well crafted pretend. A practiced school of make believe.

He hadn't caught the pilot of her new show, forcing himself to create distance from the insane notion of closeness he had been concocting in his head. He really was working very hard on…..not being…..not feeling whatever it is he kept imagining was there beneath the surface of her performance. Willing himself not to think of any subtext that might lay between them, her in his chair, his hands in her hair.

"Crane?" Cynthia prompts.

"Back in a moment Yolanda," he pats her shoulder and wanders toward the back with his friend, wringing his hands. She eyes him warily as she dials and then holds the phone up when it rings.

* * *

 

"You coming Mills?"

"Yeah sure Ash I've just----hold on I've got a call." Abbie swipes rummages through her pockets, feeling for where buzzes on her person to receive the video call and her face lights up.

"Congratulations!" choruses embarrassingly loud from the speaker.

"Cynthia!" Abbie's face flushes. "Stop it!"

"Con-Gra-Tu-LATIONS" shecrows again.

"Oh my God you're embarrassing." Abbie groans, quickly sauntering away from her fellow castrates, grinning ear to ear.

Ash watches as she departs in the direction of wardrobe, shirking off jacket and switching the phone from one hand to the other. He'd heard the exuberant call. He was happy there was someone there to celebrate with her.

"Well how do you feel?"

"I don't know!" Abbie smiles. "Like I'm floating?"

"Well, you're beaming brighter than the sun, so."

Abbie's breath catches. "Crane?"

She squints into the screen, shielding her eyes from the glare of the sun.

Cynthia looks over her shoulder and holds the phone a bit higher to catch his face in the frame.

He waves shyly. "Congratulations…..Abbie." he says, heartfelt.

Well trying to distance himself from her clearly hadn't been working. Her smile was tugging at his heart strings so maliciously were he an instrument he'd be woefully out of tune. 

"Thanks," She replies in a rush. "Thank you guys for calling, it means, it means alo----" her eyes well and she chokes off, covering her mouth and holding the phone down.

She'd made peace with the idea of not having anyone to cheer her on, many years ago. She hadn't banked on how overwhelming it would feel to discover that maybe people could care, about insignificant, her. She's dismayed such a simple show of friendship and support undoes her but now the tears won't stop. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry guys, it's just been a long day and this is a lot to take in, but, thank you so much for calling,"

Any doubts Crane may have had evaporate as he holds her gaze. "Of course Treasure," he says softy.

It's the first time he uses it, her heart warming over. A disgusting little flutter of her excitable heart translating to the brief endearment to feeling cherished. Get a grip, Mills.

"I'm more than happy to be a small part of this moment with you." he goes on.

"We both are," Cynthia adds, beaming. "Super proud of you Abbie. Mega proud."

Abbie hiccups and wipes at stray tears, checking her hands to see how much makeup she's smudged off.

"You're fine," Crane assures. "Perfect,"

She swallows and then looks around. "I….I was uh, headed out with the cast, but….when I get back in town, maybe?"

"Sure Abbie."

"Okay, well, I've….I've got to go,"

"Byeeee!" Cynthia chimes blowing an enthusiastic kiss. Crane, at a loss, mimics her behaviour and it sends Abbie into hysterics. Her sides hurt from laughing once she's hung up and she spins around, nearly colliding with Ash as she slides the phone in her pocket.

"Thought you'd gotten lost back here whoa, what's all this?" he asks, reaching to brush her cheek and then stops himself, rummaging for a tissue in his pocket and hands it to her.

"Nothing," Abbie dabs at her eyes, mainly for show. "Just, got surprised by some friends."

"You're blushing. Just friends?"

"Yes!" Abbie snaps, blustering by him.

* * *

 

Zoe Corinths celeb column the next day boasts a take on first time around oscar nominee Abbie Mills stepping out on the town with Ash Ashton to celebrate, looking cozy at a sushi bar, and staggering out a little sloshed on his arm at 3am.

Crane closes the tab and tosses his phone on the bed before he steps in the shower.Head bowed. Letting the water run.

It's none of your business, he coaches himself.

 _None_.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Entirely flash back to the past of 2015

2015

"Wow," Abbie gapes at the photo that's been captured of her leaning heavily on the towering mass of Ash. "This looks so messy," she tsks to herself, swiping past the page and feeling stupid the next day before she closes the tab and emerges on set.

She's managed to be innocuous and to stay out of gossip rag spotlight for much of her career. She does interviews, they chat about the her projects----but this is the first time theres been speculation on her personal life and it feels distinctly invasive. Not to mention it feels unprofessional. A breach of worlds that aren't meant to be crossed by outsiders. She can dabble in mixing up and losing herself in her job if she so chooses, that's her right. She knows her risks, how far she goes before she cracks----not that she pulls herself back from that point much anymore. She routinely needs a break after the harder scenes. It'sa part of her process that the crew have come to accept. Not because she's a diva, no but because Abbie is so visibly not herself or verging on a mental fracture they'd rather not risk postponing production by pushing her too far too soon, especially when they're hoping to milk this series for as long as they can.

As long as she's going to the limits-----they'll accommodate her.

Accommodation, as comfy, and warm, a term that may seem, it means isolation.

"Ashton get out of here let Mills have at the script." Metcalfe booms, chasing Ash out of the trailer when he goes looking for her afterwards, sensing she needs to talk, maybe a shoulder to lean on.

Maybe someone to talk her out of rubbing herself so raw for this part.

"I wasn't disturbing her Metcalfe, she just had a rough scene, come on, you know about her mother, that must have been hard to deal with---"

Abbie, in the corner of the room, head buried in her hands trembles and heaves lightly. The script went deep diving. A topic of mental illness which is already heavy, but dealt with her protagonist confronting the pain and loss of her maternal figure. Mixed up with an absentee father.

Of course while they're not the same, didn't Abbie draw on the pain of losing her parents anyway. The ache of being left to the vengeful, hateful whims of her sister. She threw caution to the wind and went all in for this one. Dredged up all the hurt, the feelings of abuse that her character endured shuffled from one foster home to another.

Abbie hadn't even really had to act. She just let herself be torn and wrecked and rage at the spirit of the mother who didn't have a choice in whether or not to leave her behind, but Abbie wishes she'd stayedanyway.

"Yeah and we have to finish the next shot and she can't regroup with you in here _coddling_ her."

"But----"

"You're just going to make it worse. Let her get herself together. We've got some revisions to your next scene anyway."

"I-"

"Go," Abbie garbles, "i'm fine Ash"

He shoots her a final forlorn look.

"I'm fine," she insists, throat scratchy and hoarse. Metcalfe crosses the room and drops a bottle of water on the desk where she's hunched over, slowing trying to rebuild herself.

"Good work out there," he says casually, ignoring her shuddering shoulders and blusters out of the room, calling for Ash behind him.

Ash goes, feeling uneasy about Abbie collecting her fragmented shards alone.

Something's not right, here. He thinks. He wonders if it's his place to say.

* * *

 

"I need a drink what do you think?" she calls later. Ash eyes her warily. "What."

"Go home." Ash says instead, "Go call your friends, go, sleep."

Home is an empty apartment style suite while on location. Nothing waits for her there. Just empty walls. Netflix, if she wants to nod off. She doesn't really want to be alone, not really, it's lonely enough on set being immersed in someone else. She'd like to stroll around in her own skin for a while.

Yet the look in Ash's eyes tells her, that if it's company she's looking for, it won't be found in him. He's got a tender sort of look in his eyes that makes her gut twist.

Pity? Is that it? Does he think she's doing too much, being too open? But it's her job, her career, her dream----her sanity.

"Go home Abbie," he says, laying a heavy hand on her shoulder with a gentle squeeze. "Please."

It's care, she knows it, but she's twisted it up into something ugly in her head. Kindness has very rarely come free.

Jennifer used to sweet talk her moments before flying into a rage.

* * *

 

Tell Abbie how pretty she looked in the morning on the way to school before she wiped an angry hand across Abbie's face, smearing off her lipgloss and mascara.

" _Who you got to look pretty for? Who would want you?"_

"No one Jenny, myself----"

"Don't call me 'Jenny'" She'd snap, angry. "Mama always thought it would be so cute for our names to rhyme. Jenny and Abbie, two peas in a pod---makes me sick."

"Jennifer----"

"Don't let me catch you wearing this again."

* * *

 

Abbie steps away, shrugging off Ash's touch.

"See you tomorrow." She says, voice cool and neutral.

* * *

 

Throwing herself on the bed Abbie thinks of things to keep her busy. She glances sidelong at her phone. She's got some messages she should answer from her agent, she frowns. Queries about who will dress her for Oscar night, who'll do her hair and makeup----wait.

_'Call your friends'_

Abbie sits up quickly, checks the time and dials the salon. They should be just about to close for the day by now. If she knows Cynthia she's probably left. She usually opens the shop, Crane usually closes.

Cynthia's number she's got. Crane she doesn't.

It's a pointed calculation on her end to call Whim yet she studiously ignores her own motivations and hopes that Crane isn't too quick to pick up on it.

It rings, and rings.

And rings.

The machine. She groans just as the beep sounds and tosses the phone before flustering to grab it as it skids off the side of the bed and swipes to end the call. Afterwards she scrabbles back onto the bed, an arm flung over her face, lamenting " _Why_ did I do that, why"

* * *

 

The toilet flushes as Crane emerges and he starts past his station, grabbing his bag, strolling towards the front door, key in hand about to hit the lights when the blinking red on the machine catches his eye.

He pauses, hand hanging in the air, before he shakes his head. It can wait till morning.

* * *

 

"Don't need you today," the message from Metcalfe reads. "doing rewrites." Abbie rolls over, groggy, thankful for the unexpected day off, though, it's more free time that she has to fill and she's not sure what with.

As if on cue the phone buzzes.

"That's got to be Ash," she huffs. "Probably checking up on me."

* * *

 

"Cynthia didn't you check the messages?"

She turns from where she opens the blinds. "I just got here? What are you doing here so early anyway, it's my day. Thought you'd sleep in."

"Couldn't sleep." he frowns, turning away to deter further inquiries. He'd been up watching Haunted Acres----Abbie's supernatural show. Against his own better judgement he'd gone hunting for it after he'd read that article about her and her co-star, handsome man, strutting around town. He binged it and was enthralled by the storyline, the acting, every last bit, and of course, her. She dazzled on the screen, sparked everything she touched everyone she spoke with she was alive and crackling, her eyes dancing internal light, engaging, reaching pulling. Her smiles that split her face and her scowls----glimpses of these features he has seen before, with her there, in this shop. How practiced is she in every day life.

How much of their interactions is artifice, when the same grin that could make his heart flutter----landed so spot on to the other man on screen. So sincere.

Chemistry. He'd gone down an absolute rabbit hole after a few eps, tormenting himself as he wandered into the depths of a fledgling fandom that was utterly besotted and taken with the pair. He couldn't deny it, the tangible pull between them was simultaneously astounding and nauseating. A sense of belonging. 

Briefly, he thought on Nathaniel and Tanya Jenkins, though his thoughts of them were fond. 

It's her job to do that, he chastised himself. It doesn't hint at anything, real, and even if it does why should it matter to you. You're being ** _odd_** , Ichabod. Stop it.

When he finishes setting his things down he chances a glance over his shoulder at Cynthia who's willfully ignoring him. She knows his quirks and turns by now. It's why their friends. She's set up her station and leans over in her mirror to primp. The door dings and Hawley strolls in, a box under arm and a bag, he greets Cynthia jovially. She grunts back. With them preoccupied, Crane edges toward the phone and dials the machine.

" _GRAUUUUUUGH"_

Cynthia and Hawley quiet, glancing over curiously. "What was that?"

Crane had snatched his hand back from the phone as if it scalded, equally perplexed. "I---I---well, I've----never quite----"

"pocket dial?" Nick suggest helpfully.

"Must be," Crane forces a chuckle but eyes the machine suspiciously. It's insane to think he recognizes the voice, isn't it? And even so…..he scrolls back through the phone history to see if it registered a number. This is stupid and you're going to look immensely foolish he berates as he selects the number and lifts the receiver.

* * *

 

"Whim Salon,"

Abbie leans back from the phone, confused. "What?"

"Whim, Salon, did, did you call this number……?"

Abbie scrunches her eyes tight thinking before a light goes on in he head. "Did you say Whim Salon? Crane?"

The response is cautious, "……Yes, Ichabod Crane,"

"It's me, Abbie!" she laughs too brightly. "Oh my gosh, I'm sorry, I just. Well I got in last night and I called and I got the machine….."

"I heard," he quips and Abbie pauses.

"Cynthia heard, too, as well as our supplier……it was a very, clear, groan."

Abbie chortles and snickers until she snorts which makes her laugh even harder. She's still a little sleepy and now embarrassed and the whole situation is so so, silly.

"I'm sorry." she apologizes between giggles. "I just had a long day."

"We all have those." he replies. "Was, was there a reason for your call?" Foolish to hope she'd say she just wanted to hear his voice.

"Yeah! Yes! Actually! So, I'm gonna need a stylist!"

A pause. "Yes." Crane drawls. "I am indeed one of those," he smirks in spite of himself. She's adorable when she's caught off guard like this. A bubbly slightly frazzled creature. It makes him grin.

"I mean," she huffs. "For the oscars.I was wondering if you and Cynthia could----"

"Yes."

"I didn't even finish ask----"

"Yes."

"Crane," she chuckles, tickled by his enthusiasm. "Let me finish."

"No need Treasure consider it done,"

Her cheeks warm.

"Just tell Cynthia and I the date, it's done."

"Cra---" she stops herself. She doesn't know what else she was going to say but she's surprised how much this quick, professional exchange has brightened her morning. She knows she should but she doesn't want to let him off the phone. "Thank you," she says at last, her voice falling.

"…….Abbie?"

"Yeah?"

"….I caught your new show," he confides. "It's….it's really, very good, I'm not one for supernatural but…..you're sublime in it."

She perks up. "It's different from anything I've done before."

"It really is, it's refreshing. I can really see, parts of you, in the role."

Abbie's mind flickers to the tough walls and guarded nature of her character. The hurt that slips through cracks in her facade. "You see a lot of me," she corrects.

His mind replays the fiery glances between her and her male counterpart. The sense of connection. He clears his throat.

"You and…..the character of Nicolas----"

"Played by Ash Ashton." she supplies. "Yeah, he's great. We're really good together."

* * *

 

**_"Oscar Nominee_ **

**_steps out with co-star and leading manAsh Ashton for a night of celebration,_ **

**_staggering home together after departing the sushi bar,_ **

**_on lookers say they were jovial and cozy looking._ **

**_Could this mean something else is brewing on the set of Haunted Acres?"_ **

* * *

 

Crane gulps. "Yes, you, are. Well. _Thank you_ for calling, for thinking of me--- _us._ Cynthia and I. And we'll be in touch about details."

Abbie blinks at the quick slip into his business manner. His tone carefully detached, but pleasant. Like a regular a client. A familiar sort of stranger.

He's too good at that, though not as smooth switching masks as she is. He's more abrupt and thorough. He flips a switch and he's not the sweet, quiet man, but smooth and easygoing. It's subtle enough that if she weren't craving the more tender parts of him she would miss it.

Crane's personas draw clear lines.

"Oh. Oh, Yeah, sure, thanks again."

Abbie let's hers blur to the point of being beyond recognition.

"Have a good day."

And neither knows, who they really are.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> :/ 
> 
> Some of the present with Cynthia.  
> Some present with Crane and Abbie  
> A flashback. a look at friendships. Some old hurts.

Present.

"I should have told him she was in town, if I'm his friend, I shouldn't have let her blind side him like this," Cynthia worries her bottom lip between her teeth as Nick drives through the snowy roads. "I could have mentioned…."

"What exactly?" Hawley asks calmly. "You said yourself he hasn't really been, forthcoming."

"No, but…..but that's just Crane's way."

"Cyn---"

"You don't know Crane like I do,"

"I don't think anyone 'knows' Crane,"

She shoots him a glare and he winces.

"You know what I mean, Cynthia. Crane is like the tip of an iceberg in the atlantic. There's no really telling what lies leagues below. And I don't fault him for it. I'm just saying……he guards himself with almost everyone, even you, which I know is a sore spot given you pride yourself on being his best friend but….I don't think you were wrong, not to tell him. He hasn't given you much cause to believe there was ever anything there. No reason for you, to be a busybody and interject"

"You're just trying to make me feel better."

"And what if I am." he shrugs, cavalier. "I hate to see you frown. It hurts a little, right here" he rubs vaguely at a spot on his chest and pouts. "Can't stand to see my Cinnabon in pain."

She lets out an annoyed groan, rolling her eyes. "You're _awful._ "

His eyes twinkle. " _Youuuuu_ like it."

"I dont---"

"Don't even lie to me!"

Cynthia's lips twitch and she bites them together hard so Nick won't see the beginnings of a barely contained smile.

"Think of it this way, Cynthia, did she tell you 'I'm here to see Crane?"

"No, but she did tell me she was planning on staying at the cabin---"

"But did she tell you, she's here to see Ichabod Crane?"

"……. _no_ "

"Then it was never any of your business, hon, and, you don't need to feel guilty about it."

"I just worry."

"About who, Crane? Abbie?"

Cynthia looks at him, her eyes widen meaningfully, beginning to brim and Nick pulls over on the side of the road, unfastening seat belt he turns fully to see her, taking her hands in his----small wonder she goes so willingly into the cocoon of his palms----"Cynthia?"

" _Both,_ Nick." she whispers, "I'm worried about them _both_."

* * *

 

Abbie guides him deftly into the room, gently knocking him over onto the bed. Eyes never leaving his she unbuttons his collar and down the row, trailing soft kisses with her plush lips, flush against his skin. His breathing is steady. Careful controlled steady. One false move this will all disappear. Breathe too hard, she'll blow away. Close your eyes she'll vanish. Sigh into her administrations, become like putty and melt into her tender exploring hands and you'll be left cold. Wanting.

She's slow undoing his belt, pausing to ask, "Is this…..keep going?" his silence unnerves her and even though he nods she persists. "Ichabod, please, I….." she drops the belt and steps back from him, taking the whole of him in. She'd entirely forgotten she was wearing lipstick. His mouth is a red smear and all overhis chest, if she didn't know they were her doing she'd think him covered in a rash. Blurred red, all over him, messy, blotchy marks.

Like me.

"If you want this, me. Please say something."

When he answers, his voice sounds faraway, unsure,"......I saw…… on one of those covers----"

"There's nothing between me and Ash." she says vehemently. "I mean it---"

"Not now, there isn't"

" _Crane----_ "

* * *

 

2015

Cynthia looks over from where she's shooing Nick away from her tools.

"What's this one do?"

"Corkscrew curls, you'd look _darling_ with them," she taunts, "Hey Crane, you alright?"

Lips pressed together he takes out the appointment book. He's old fashioned. Lucky for him that Cynthia is too, it makes operations run smoother, that they conduct business in the same way. She calls for him again but he's immersed himself in time and names. He's not trying to be rude so much as firmly remind himself of his place. What he is. _Who_ he is.

A stylist. A Tamer of Manes. A Visionary of Hair----if he wants to be self-indulgent.

But not, a leading man.

Get it in your thick skull.

Life isn't a movie.

And she isn't about to pick you, strange, mild mannered-----leaning tower of socially inept----"Crane." He jolts and stiffens under Cynthia's palm, resting lightly on his shoulder.

He turns to meet her gaze.

"Was it bad news?" she asks. "On the phone?"

He blinks slowly twice, taking more time than he knows is wise with someone like Cynthia. She's a good friend in that she can always sense when something is wrong.He often times wishes he was a good enough friend to trust her more. To trust himself, to trust her more. 

"It was Abbie," he says, still not moving until she lifts her hand. She looks at him, puzzled by his demeanour. Cogs turning.

"Is she okay? does she need something?"

"Makeup and hair for the Oscars. We'll establish details later."

"That's….. _great, news_ " she says slowly, unsurely, trying to perhaps hint at Crane that he shouldn't look so much like someone had kicked him in the stomach.

He takes the hint but he's unconvincing on the delivery. "Oh yes, very, great, awesome news," he nods.

"Then---" she starts but thinks better. He won't answer her right now anyway. It's time to open. "Who've we got first?"

* * *

 

The day whirs by and the shop lights dim.

"Hey." Cynthia entreats, bumping his shoulder as they leave. "Let's get thai food."

He's about to protest, she knows it, he'd been in a sombre mood all day, flying his exuberance at half mast but she wags her brows at him playfully and earns herself a chuckle. She links her arm with his. "My treat Crane, come on."

"I don't know why you and Hawley don't get along you're both spectacular nuisances…….."

She swats him, affronted. "Crane!"

He throws his hands up in surrender. "All I'm saying is you might get along better than you think."

"I'm going to make you regret saying that, trust me. When you fall asleep, I'm puttingmanic panic in your hair."

It's his turn to gasp, "Cynthia, you wouldn't."

"I think you'd make a fetching red head."

"Cynthia!" he laughs, the sound robust and she knows she's won for now. She's made him laugh. He leans into her as they walk companionably down the street.

"You said while I sleep, I guess that means I'm staying over?"

She nods. "Sleep over at Cynthia's! We'll get thai to go, and then go home and……play board games."

He quirks a brow. "Board games?"

"I'm tired of movies," she says, eying him carefully but he doesn't object. In fact he seems to heave a sigh of relief."BesidesI haven't trampled you in monopoly in a while."

"Those are fighting words Cynthia," he warns.

She flashes him a grin. "The only words I know, oh hey, last one to Ben Thanh pays."

"But you said your treat!"

" _I changed my mind!_ " and she bounds away from him, skipping a few paces ahead.

"You're so childish!"

But he gives chase anyway.

Sometimes he needs that. A friend who can cheer him up. Who can be a bit absurd. He needs that a lot more since Nathaniel and Tanya moved away. It aches to think of them, sometimes.

* * *

 

Past

In a way, all three of them were outcasts.

If not Tanya always feeling a bit on the outside for the colour of her skin---even among so called white friends----then Nathaniel for his scar and fragile nature. Nathaniel had a bright personality, outgoing, funny, and didn't mind at all if he didn'tfit into any normal boxes. He'd told Crane once, "I'm just lucky I'm here, you know? I can't be bothered trying to be a macho jock." And he'd looked at him then, pale grey eyes piercing through "And you shouldn't either."

And course, there was Crane. The gentle giant. Soft spoken capable, gifted with hair. Spent too much time with girls on weekends but none who called him a friend. Only gossiped and said he was a little odd come monday and did nothing to defend him from the taller, broader boys who harassed him in the halls.

They didn't pick fights with him, no. Back then Ichabod's height was still cause to give them pause----and those with longer memories, who'd aged up with him from Grade school and recalled the unleashing of a surprisingly violent temper on then bully Emery Ross. And a number of scuffles that followed after.

Ichabod Crane could fight, everyone knew. But it was ungoverned, cold and angry when, if he did, which set him at odds with the gentle young man who always had hair magazines crammed in his bag. Coaches had asked him to try for wrestling teams but he'd refused. Guys were insulted by the snub, but knew better than to pick a fight with Strange Crane.

And so they knew to leave alone Tanya Jenkins and Nathaniel Parker. He was protective of them, as they were of him. To not know much kindness from peers, it was easy to revel in their company. They looked past all the confounding parts of him and settled on just knowing what he was willing to give.

Which for them, was quite a lot.

What Crane was able to show, was enough to be his friend. Enough for them.No one really knew words, nor had any level of comfort with the idea of intimacy that he found with them. Nathaniel would find him after school, idling by his locker, fling an arm around him and they'd sit together on the floor, shoulders touching, talking about the day, about their homework, while waiting for Tanya to get out of math club.

"Nerd," He'd call affectionately when she'd finally swing out the doors.

"You guys waiting for me?"

"Who else?" He'd wheedle, and Crane would watch as Tanya slipped one of her hands in Nathaniel's, and then, with a beaming smile, extend her other to him. As he stood she'd grace him a peck on the cheek before he reached full height and then bestowed the same on Nathaniel.

Together, hands joined, they'd walk home.

Sometimes Crane thinks they could have all been happy together like that, somehow, if…..if he'd been enough for them.

He wondered if he'd said something back then---before and not during the wedding preparations----about the confusing, blurry things he felt, if it would have mattered. If they'd have agreed, would they have seen.

But after prom came the afternoon when Nathaniel whispered to Crane in heated confidence, nervous energy radiating off of him in waves----"I'm gonna ask her to marry me, Ichabod." He'd fumbled around in his pocket, producing a small ash grey box with the tiniest ring. It couldn't have cost him more than two hundred dollars. Probably got it at the counter at Kmart. Crane's mouth had gone dry, colour draining from his face and stomach twisting in dumb shock. "Well?" Nathaniel prodded, nudging him. "What do you think? Think she'll say yes?"

Crane wondered how he had missed such deep feelings blooming suddenly between his friends. Wondered, how he'd managed to so insufficiently communicate his own feelings that they'd been able bypass him.

" ** _Yep_** " he croaked. Nathaniel, giddy, nervous, hardly even registered that Crane seemed out of sorts.

When the news broke that Tanya had accepted, Crane grinned through the crumbling feeling in his chest.Swallowed the anxious voice inside him that nearly asked how they could leave him behind and chose instead to believe he'd been deluding himself into thinking there was anything special, permanent about them all together.

That he'd simply managed totrick himself into believing he was enough for some one.

* * *

 

2015

"Cynthia we can't possibly eat all of this."

"You're right. That's why some of this is going to be my lunch for the next couple of days." she grins.

"Ah." Crane sighs. "So really, this was all just a ploy to get us to stock your fridge."

"Nah. I wanted to spend time with you too, we've been so busy lately, don't get to talk much anymore you know----hey." Cynthia nudges him. "They were checking you out!"

He'd glanced over his shoulder, only because he was expected to, and saw the attractive person who'd just passed them on the street, lingering in the doorway of the restaurant before entering. Their gaze raking over him accompanied by a smile that hinted they liked what they saw.

"Nonsense." Crane waves dismissively.

"Crane……look, If I thought they were looking at me I'd go over and…."

"Well why don't you."

"Because _you_ , were the one they had eyes for" she teased, bumping his shoulder. He laughed but didn't answer.

Eyes for who. He thought.

No one has eyes for me.

I'm not going to be presumptuous. I'm not going to assume.

I wouldn't _dare._

He looks back one last time.

No. he affirms. Couldn't want me. Not really.

Who does?

_Who could?_

* * *

 

Present

"Well here you are." Nick slows down in front of the town house.

"Thanks for the ride,"

"Ahhh, any time Cinnabon."

"You're really not going to stop calling me that, are you."

He winks at her. "Nope. I can pick you up in the morning?"

She smiles. "I'd appreciate that Nick, thanks."

"Anytime. Oh, and Cynthia?"

She turns back on the step, key in hand. "Yeah?"

"Lay your head down and sleep, okay? They're adults. They'll figure it out. But you're no use to them strung tight. Okay?"

Cynthia's cheeks flush, embarrassed about the vulnerable moment in the car. She's not someone that keeps walls but still that was more transparent than she likes to be. "See you tomorrow, Nick."

"Same time, same place. Sleep tight sweetheart."

"Now I draw the line at----"

But he's just grinning at her. She shakes her head.

"Go home" she laughs. "Drive safe." Once inside she turns on the light and waves to him from the door.This is a new level of friendly for her and Nick. Crane's earlier teasing comes back to her and she purses her lips together to keep from laughing. She can't say what this is……but it's nice to have someone be concerned, to care for her a little bit. She can appreciate that. Anyone would.

* * *

 

2015

They run the lines. Shoot the scenes. Bang out shot after shot. It's a productive day. They're even a little ahead of schedule. Everything flows and professionally, it's all she could ask for. Ash is a fantastic scene partner and checks in after the rough parts. Grabs lunch with her if he can. Get drinks, go wander the streets a little when they're done filming. Sits by her side when the cast are all out together. Closest friend, confidant she could hope for on the job and she's grateful.

He's even keel. Level. No shifting tides or lines to tip toe across.

No whiplash.

Why is he like that, Abbie wonders before shaking herself out of her reverie. So many days later, work bustling, invites to pre-oscar parties coming out of her ears----she didn't know there were this many people in Hollywood who would suddenly care----and all she can think about is Ichabod Crane.

End of a long day she texts Cynthia back in Sleepy Hollow : Hey, can I ask you something?

A reply bounces back immediately: Hey! Black is not your colour if you're asking about your dress.

Abbie snorts before she types slowly, tentatively: No…..I was wondering about Crane……


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Many flashbacks.  
> Mostly 2015

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I have roughly 3 time periods here. the "Present" which, given when I started this is still 2018. The years as they progress leading up to the present, "2014, 2015, etc etc" and the "Past" which is an undisclosed year during which we see most of Abbie and Crane's development as individuals. Hope that clears things up cuz I know I switched up here so.....any questions get at me! 
> 
> And uh.....leave a comment! <3

2015

"So……I spoke to Abbie the other night."

Crane's hand stills as he reaches for his glass of wine.

"She has dates for when she needs us."

Crane gives an imperceptible nod. "Good. Time enough for us to book our fare I hope."

"I'll take care of all that Ichabod you don't have to worry your pretty little head."

A hand flies self consciously to his mane and Cynthia hides a snicker.

* * *

 

She did make good on her threat, after all, to Crane's dismay. He'd indeed fallen asleep at Cynthia's house and the imp had put a vibrant pinkish red hue in his hair. She must have done it shortly before he'd wake up in the morning, needing to shower.

It wasn't until he saw the red fluid running down the drain like a scene in a horror movie that he'd yelped, shut off the water and leapt from the shower, towelling his hair and then screaming----Cynthia had never heard Crane scream and it was at once hilarious and horrifying.

"CYNTHIA PAULINE IRVING SO HELP ME YOU'RE……YOU'RE GOING TO BE SHORN LIKE A LAMB WHEN I GET MY HANDS ON YOU."

She was in stitches when he emerged from the washroom, his hair blown dry and styled as usual, but yes, more, cheeky than his natural state. Personally, she thought it quite suited him, gave him a sort of punk flair.

"I will never trust you again." He'd groused. Cynthia pouted.

"Crane," she wheedled. "It's not permanent."

His mouth twists. "Does it look alright?"

"You're handsome Ichabod. You're hard to screw up. I like it, honestly. I think you were due for a change."

He'd laughed then, what started as a soft half chuckle and then began to wrack his body with the force of it. Cynthia crossed the room and flung her arms around him. "You look great to me. And if it makes you feel better, I offer up my crown."

His eyes lit up. "Really?"

She'd beamed back at him. If there was one thing that almost always put Crane in a good mood it was free reign of a head of hair. "I'm in your hands."

* * *

 

Cynthia twirls the purple and black braids Crane bestowed her with, personally feeling a little self conscious about the buzzed side of her own head, but she had told him he could do anything. And the style did look amazing----surely more adventurous than he usually got to be. It's just sometimes the left side of her head feels a little, cold.

"It's almost faded," Cynthia lies boldly with a grin.

His cheeks tinge pink. "When are we needed?" he asks instead.

"Two weeks?"

He drains his glass and slumps in her chair. He hasn't been back to his house in a bit. Says he ends up watching too much tv.

But this also means Cynthia hasn't been able to watch too much of her own faces and she's behind on numerous series. She's a little annoyed she hasn't been able to catch up on Haunted Acres. She loves the supernatural, and of course wants to support Abbie. She's really everywhere these days. In the moments before Crane pads into her kitchen she catches interviews and commercials for the show, advertising the next weeks episode.

And Ash Ashton is a hunk. She loves watching them interact on screen together. They finish sentences and poke fun at the others expense. Crane returns slowly as the snippet flashes across the screen.

* * *

 

**_"Nicolas, I'll….I'll stay."_ **

**_"No." Ash's character whispers, grasping her forearms, desperation shining in his eyes. "No, Dana, I can't let you stay here while."_ **

**_Her face softens into a defeated sort of smile. "It's fine. I've spent a lot of time running. Time I faced some of my own demons for a while Nico,"_ **

**_His face scrunches in annoyance and she laughs. He wraps his arms tight around her. Tears shimmer in her eyes that she hurriedly blinks away. When he pulls back, he cups her cheek._ **

**_The frame is unkind enough to zoom in on the proximity of the two, the locked, intense gaze, their faces drawing closer, closer pausing only a breath a part. "I promise Dana, I'll come back for you."_ **

**_"Haunted Acres, Monday night at 8pm/9est"_ **

* * *

 

Cynthia gazes at the screen her mouth open. "What? What….what the hell was that? Leave Dana where? I-----"

Crane joins her on the couch. "You haven't been watching?" he probes. His friend regards him calmly.

"Well. No, not since you've been here," she chides, flashing a smile. "Been spending quality time with you instead."

"I…..caught a few episodes."

Cynthia listens carefully to the inflexion in his tone, thinking back to her call from Abbie.

* * *

 

Abbie: He mentioned he'd been watching Haunted Acres.

Oh! I've been watching it too. You're awesome in it! So is Ash!: Cynthia 

Abbie: :) Thanks, Cynthia……that's the thing, he brought up Ash.

 Hey, is he single….sorry go on :p :Cynthia 

Abbie: Haha. Anyway….Once I started talking about Ash he got weird on the phone.

Weird how?:Cynthia

There wasn't a response for a while and Cynthia sat there wondering where this conversation was headed. It's been a long time since  Abbie seemed confused and unsure.

Almost, hurt.

She remembers trying to camouflage a darkening bruise on Abbie's cheek after school in the girls washroom. Digging around in her bag for concealer and sponges, tending to her with as gentle a hand as she could, given the time frame. Abbie was scheduled to go for an audition in ten minutes but Abbie's wincing and twisting was making it difficult.

* * *

 

Past

Hideous grey brick and blue sick borders. Speckled tile. Their whispering voices still echoed. 

" _Abbie,_ " dab."hold still. Come on, _please,_ I know it hurts, I'm really trying."

"It's not your fault Cynthia…..it's……." and then there were tears running down her cheeks. Cynthia gave up on the makeup and opened her arms instead. " _I can't do it,_ Cynthia. I can't…..she……"

"Sssh." she sighed. "There'll be other auditions, Abbie. I promise." Abbie shuddered through the allotted time slot of her audition and for another good fifteen minutes after. Cynthia's shoulder was soaked.

"Oh, Cynthia," she murmured.

Cynthia, always empathetic and soft hearted, was misty eyed herself. It wounded her to see her friend like this. She'd offered for Abbie to come stay at her house. More than once. To call the police, anything, but Abbie couldn't bring herself to do it. If she lets herself, Cynthia can feel plenty guilty that she didn't say anything to anyone. Doesn't know if she should have.

If maybe because she hadn't, she'd been a bad friend. She has never stopped being sorry that she didn't do more to rescue Abbie.

Yet in whatever way she tried, Abbie wouldn't let her.

"It's fine, Abbie," she burbled back, holding her friends face. "I can drop you home?"

Silent and still teary, Abbie nodded.

The doors opened and a pair of girls sauntered in, chattering excitedly about how their audition went. When callbacks were. They called brief hellos.

"Hi Cynthia hi…." one paused, craning her head to catch sight of Abbie's shielded reflection in the mirror."Abbie…..?" just as she was about to peer closer, Cynthia finished gathering her makeup and linked her fingers with Abbie's, tugging her out the door.

"Later Shauna! Bye Analiese!"

Out in the car, making a detour to the library because they had a report coming due Cynthia glanced at Abbie out the corner of her eye. "I'm gonna show you how to cover that, on your own. Come here."

Back in the washroom again, this one a fresh airy taupe bordered in forest green, but with less likelihood of being interrupted by prying peers Cynthia demonstrated on herself and Abbie followed. "You blend with this," she said, handing a clean sponge out of the ripped open pack. "And go around, like this,"

To anyone else, just two girls touching up their faces. Not trying to hide anything.

To pave over evidence of broken vessels and traumatized flesh.

"And this is to set it. Close your eyes." Abbie did as told, wrinkling her nose as the mist settled on her face before blinking open surprised eyes at her reflection. She was going to cry again.

"Thank you," she managed, swallowing past the lump in her throat. Cynthia huffed a choked laugh.

"No problem," she breathed, taking down Abbie's hair out of it's braid and fluffing it around her face, pulling and arranging strands on the right side to help conceal and distract. "You can keep that stuff, I have a bunch."

"Cyn----"

" ** _Abbie._** "

Another swallow. "Thank you."

* * *

 

2015

Cynthia's phone rang and it was Abbie on the line.

"I was wondering if you'd fallen asleep."

"No. I…..I was just…..it's stupid, oh my God never mind," Abbie laughs

Her skin prickles. There was that deflecting tone again. She hasn't heard it in years. "You were saying something about Crane?"

"Just….wanted to know if I'd, offended him….somehow……forget it, it's fine."

"I don't think so, you want me to ask?"

"No! I mean, no, Cynn, really----"

"Abbie….. are you okay?"

"…… ** _yep_** "

Her stomach twists. "Abbie. When are you coming home."

"I'm glad you can help me get ready, for, the thing," she interjects, dodging.

"The _Oscars?_ " she teases gently and Cynthia can almost see Abbie's faint, weary smile.

"That."

"It's nothing. We'll get you set up right, trust me." rolling with the punches, like she always does. Don't push too much Cynthia. Don'tprod and pick at scabs.

"….Cynthia I don't think I ever really thanked you-----"

"And you don't have to---"

"No. Really. Cynthia……."

They never talked about it, after.

"I wouldn't be here without you. _Thank you so much_."

"…It was the least I could do." She feels freshly cut open, thrown back, too many years to a terrifying afternoon. A chillovercomes her just to remember it.

On her end, Abbie almost says she feels alone. Comes this close to confessing how, singular and apart she is on set. That no matter how she tried to convince herself she was being irrational Crane's abruptness with her had smarted. She misses Cynthia, her friend. She misses and craves the feeling of someone she could lean on. Dependable. Open. She could hunger for invisibility but that would mean her career had stalled, and she's only just begun. She has had an incredible chance at life, flying in the face of her own origin story. She wouldn't dare squander it. She's probably just tired from filming Haunted Acres, they'll wrap soon. It'll pass. All of these thoughts collide and disperse rapidly in her mind but leaves her overwhelmed. A jumbled swarm of emotions that can only make up its mind to want to cry, so at last she says. "Thank you, for everything."

She can tell Cynthia is teary by the way she aggressively clears her throat. "Anytime. Get some sleep, and we'll see you soon, right? two weeks?"

"Yeah, Cynthia th---"

"Don't say thank you" she laughs lightly. Abbie bites her lips together. "I'll…..I'll tell Crane you called?"

"Okay."

"Kay. Night Abbie."

"Night girl."

* * *

 

"So." Cynthia folds her legs up under her on the couch, "Well what do you think of it? Abbie's pretty bad ass here isn't she?"

Crane stares into the depths of his glass. "Spectacular."

"The whole cast is really, electric….." she trails off, thinking. "The guy playing Nicolas is good too….he…."

"Ash. Ashton. They work perfectly together. A dream team."

His tone is weird.

"They have good chemistry,"

"Spectacular."

Oh. The corners of her lips pull down. That's it then. She can't quite discern how nor why but this is the crux of it. Screwing up her mouth Cynthia throws her hands behind her head, reclining and 'accidentally' sticking her feet in Crane's lap. He looks down at her wriggling toes with a raised inquiring brow.

"Well it's all _fake_ anyway, for the camera. None of that is real." she says with casual confidence. 

When she steals a glance at Crane, she sees the imperceptible smile that flits across his face. He reaches for the remote. "What do you want to watch?"


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All past stuff.
> 
> with a 2015 flashback, preparations underway.

Past

Everyone's having some sort of melt down, freakout panic attack about their future. Except for Cynthia, who knew exactly what she wanted to be, got a plan and everything; going to take a little time off, work, and then go to Beauty School. Everyone's worried about their grades and extracurriculars, compiling impressive letters, little miniature resumes of their educational accomplishments to deem themselves worthy of pursuing their chosen path further. They all knew what they' were going to be.

Except for Abbie, whocould barely cling to the hope to be anything.

Her will to fight came in stops and spurts.

Some days Abbie had all the spunk, strength and belief in the world.

Other days, the verbal abuse got to her, and if not that, then the hands, that seemed to come out of nowhere. Around corners. Over shoulder. To the left. The right. Her things that vanished. Last remnants of gifts from her parents that she know's Jennifer has given away but she can't muster the energy to argue with her about it. Jennifer stayed out late.Thankfully Abbie was usually finished her homework and in bed before the key turned in the lock.

She'd burrow under the cover of her blankets when she heard the creak of her bedroom door. Held her body rigid. Held her breath, tensing, bracing, waiting for a rage. A barrage of words she couldn't defend against. A flurry of hands to fend off. It won't matter what it's for. It won't make sense through the hissed venomous things. The floorboards whined as footfalls approached, creeping closer. The bed would dip under the weight of Jennifer sitting down next to her. She didn't dare move.

"I shouldn't do this to you." she'd say, running a hand through her own hair. "Mama wouldn't have wanted it……no she would have wanted me to probably off myself and leave everything for you……you were always her favourite I know it. Her and dad…..turned away from me the minute you got here. Why'd you have to come here, Abbie."

Abbie nearly answered that she couldn't help it. It hadn't been her choice. Certainly, if she had known, if she could have foretold the life that awaited her, here, she wouldn't have wanted to be born. Instead she squeezed her eyes shut and prayedthat she wouldn't make any sudden moves to alert her sister.

"You _took_ everything. You ruined _everything._ " she gasped, burying her head in her hands, heaving. "I hate…..I hate that I feel this, that I hate you, I don't want to, this isn't fun, every day I see you and I keep remembering they used to be here and they're not because…..because you couldn't let me have anything of my own. You shouldn't have been trying out for that school. You--you  shouldn't have wanted what _I_ did. _Why_ couldn't you…… _why couldn't you have_ ……" she trailed off and laughed mirthlessly. "I'm not going to let you keep screwing things up for me." Jennifer vowed solemnly. "I'm not going to keep wrecking myself, hurting you. One day I'll leave you. I'll….. I'll go places you could only dream of. And don't you _dare_ follow me." she hissed, dashing angry tears from her eyes. "Don't you dare come after me again, I'll destroy you if you do, Abbie _I mean it_."

The bed bounced back up, the door slammed shut.

* * *

 

"Deadlines are approaching Abbie," Cynthia wheedled at lunch, watching Abbie pick at her food, pushing cafeteria meatballs around and around, over hill and valley of pasta on her plate. "Abbie."

" ** _What_**." she snapped, stabbing at one, lifting it, examining it, only to drop it back on the plate and reaching for her water instead.

"Starving yourself isn't going to make her nice to you, you know."

Abbie's head snapped up, eyes flashing with warning. "Don't----"

"She's not going to start loving you if you make yourself a failure." She pressed and Abbie rose from the table, tray in hand. Irritated, Cynthia remained seated, chewing viciously until she bit her tongue and cursed. Giving up, cleaned up her stuff and trailed after her friend, turning for the doors."Abbie….."

"I don't want to talk about it."

Catching up with her, pushing the door open ahead and watching Abbie shield her eyes from the sunlight. Failing at hiding how her eyes started to brim.

"We're gonna talk about it." Cynthia insisted, falling in step beside her. "We're going to talk about it Abbie because…..I know….look I can't ever understand, I can't. I know she's hurt you and…..what she's trying to do to you but, Abbie----"

"Don't tell me I can't let her win."

"Abbie. _Y_ _ou can't_."

"And do what, Cynthia? Go where, huh?"

"That's for you to figure out. That's for you to find, the world, out there, Abbie…..it's your oyster _you can do anything,"_

It might have been something, in the tone. Might have been, the way Cynthia laid hands on her shoulders and turned her around so they were eye to eye and she could see belief in her friend's eyes, a honest shining glimmer of hope. Probably, somewhere in the back of her mind, a forgotten corner of her battered heart recalled, her mother used to say the same thing to her and Jennifer. She'd meant for them to storm the world together but….. _Mama you don't know what she's become now_ ……and Abbie's face crumpled.

"I didn't wanna make you cry," Cynthia frowned, pulling her in. "I just…..I believe, in you Abbie. You have a passion for acting and I think you should follow it."

"What if she's right." Abbie choked. "What if….if I'm really just copying her, an imitation a----"

"If you were a copy of her you'd be cruel, like her." Cynthia pointed out. "You'd be jealous, angry, bitter, like her. But you're not. You're Grace, Abigail, best friend of Cynthia Pauline Irving, Mills."

Through the tears Abbie gave a weary chuckle.

"You are considerate. Head strong, stubborn, oh my God, you are so stubborn sometimes you're _infuriating_. Funny. Talented, on your own merit. And loved…….Your parents loved you, Abbie."

"It was their love for me that got them killed----"

"It was a horrible thing, for them to go……but not such a horrible way……it wasn't your fault, it was a freak accident and it caught them in the middle of being supportive and loving to their youngest child. It's a tragedy, but you didn't cause it. Jenny doesn't want to admit that. She's spent too much time making herself hate and blame you. Let her. Let her stew in it. But I'm not going to just watch you boil away with her."

"What am I supposed to do? How would I pay for it how----"

"Get in first. Worry later."

"The deadlines….."

"Are coming but there's still time, we can record some auditions still. I know you had decent grades….."

"Who would record….."

"…..Luke Morales…."

Abbie's tears seemed to dry in shock. 

"Cynthia are you _crazy?_ You think I should ask my _sister's boyfriend_ to help me secretly record audition tapes?"

Her mouth twisted. "He owes me a favour……I did his _other_ girlfriends hair for free the other day."

Abbie opened her mouth and then closed it. Morales two timing her sister was the least of her concerns.

"Even if he won't record it, I can learn to operate the camera. We can do this. And I'm not scarred of Jennifer."

* * *

 

Morales complied as far as to loan them the camera and helped edit footage afterward. He didn't say much to Abbie, only shot her a few sparing looks and Abbie trembled to think he would rat  to Jennifer but when he was all done and handed the recordings back over for Abbie to submit all he said was "I hope you get in. Good luck."

That after noon was when he would tell Jennifer he couldn't be with someone so inherently mean spirited. Couldn't breed that sort of negativity in his life. Couldn't carry it forward into his future. Yes, he was seeing someone. No, he's not telling her who. "Get it together Jennifer. Go someplace, do something with yourself."

* * *

 

The whole incident had gone forgotten until the acceptance letters came. And Jennifer got to them first.

She was livid.

"Uppity little **_bitch_**!" she'd cursed, smashing a lamp. "After everything I gave up for you you think you're just gonna leave me behind here? Huh? **_DO YOU?"_**

Abbie dodged the hand that came her way.

"Leave _me_ _?_ You think you're gonna leave _first_  No way in hell----I can't _beeeeelive_ you still think you have a right to----"

 _"I DO HAVE A RIGHT_ " Abbie yelled and for a moment Jennifer had been stunned.

 _"What_ did you say?"

"I HAVE A RIGHT." she screamed through tears. "I HAVE A RIGHT TO BE HERE. TO LIVE. TO DO WHAT I WANT TO DO WITH OR WITHOUT YOU JENNY."

Shock gave way to something eerily serene in Jennifer's eyes. "With or without me? _is that what you thought?_ "

Abbie was backing away, but paused when she saw Jennifer performing an about face back to the kitchen, rifling through cupboards. Stupidly, Abbie crept back after her, felt her throat tighten. Jennifer had her letters. All of her acceptance envelopes and packages.

And she was holding a lighter.

"Jenny…..stop."

"If you don't need me, Abbie, you don't need these either, you'll manage without, right?"

"Jenny……"

Click.

_Spark._

"YOU'LL MANAGE WITHOUT"

" ** _NO!"_**

Abbie never tried to fight properly. Defended herself, but had never set out to do damage. She'd still always been holding on to familial ties. That this was her sister. That mama would want better for them.

But mama isn't here now.

" _Your parents loved you."_

Mama would understand.

Jennifer staggered with the impact of Abbie's body colliding with hers. The lighter knocked from her hand, flying past the curtains that quickly went up in flame.

"Get off me you parasite!" Jenny screamed but Abbie couldn't stop.

All of the pain, the hurt, rained down in furious, feral blows.

"Get OFF"

A hard slap whipped Abbie's head to the side and she rolled off, holding her mouth as Jennifer scrambled out from under her, grabbing for the letters she'd been holding before Abbie tackled her. But Abbie wasn't done fighting. Abbie was never going to stop fighting again. She grabbed for Jennifer's foot.

"You ungrateful little wretch!" she kicked and Abbie's fingers spasmed but she grabbed again and twisted.

Her sisters eyes went wide with outrage. "OW LET GO OH MY GOD LET GO"

"YOU LET GO"

"That doesn't _make sense_ stupid…..OW!"

Another kick sent Abbie sprawling.

The flames licked up the curtains, scrabbled across to the cabinets. The struggle continued, thrashing from one side to the other. Scratches and bruises and Abbie bit her hand before she grabbed her materials, the path to her freedom and future and went running from the room.

There was cooking oil and a canister of cooking spray in the cupboard.

Abbie was fumbling in her pocket for her phone, dialling as she bolted back toward the door when she heard sharp hiss of more flames.  And Jenny locked an arm around her neck.

"Abbie?" Cynthia called. _"Abbie?"_

But all she heard were struggle sounds, screams, crackling flames.

The Mills lived on an older property, set apart from the street, turn off on a little dirt road. Cynthia was sprinting from her house without any explanation to her parents, blazing the short distance to the Mills residence and what she saw horrified her.

In an upstairs window the lights were on, shadows careening from one end to another. The lower half of the house, the flickering orange an yellow could be seen creeping through the windows. Smoke was beginning to billow and curl through the sky. Crackle snap the only sounds in the background.

"Abbie!" Cynthia screamed, casting around frantically. "Abb----" the window shattered and Cynthia clapped a hand over her mouth.

" ** _YOU'RE NOT LEAVING_** \------"

"Abbie!" Cynthiayelled. She did the only thing she could think of, holding her arms wide. "Abbie!"

The flames were flickering in the background, and Abbie was sailing down from the window, seemingly in slow motion, papers fluttering in her grasp, Jennifer's face stretched in the most vicious angry howl but then Cynthia was bowled over on her back, Abbie in her arms.

"Oh my God." Cynthia groaned, feeling the pain, feeling sure something was bruised or broken. But….she pushed hurriedly at Abbie's shoulders. "Oh God, Abbie, Abbie, _come on_ , wake up, _please_ wakeup……."

"C-c-c-c-ome on," Abbie staggered to her feet, wrenching Cynthia up beside her even as she buckled under the effort, towing Cynthia away from looking back at the destruction. "Please," she begged and Cynthia snapped to attention.

"Let's go, come on, come on." And Abbie was in the car, her letters singed and crinkled and a little torn, but Abbie was safe, she was alive. "I've got you," Cynthia's hands trembled on the steering wheel. "I've got you……um….Abbie?…….. what are those in your hands?"

Heaving, shaking, wreaking of smoke, scratched and aching, a fragile, impossibly triumphant smile broke across Abbie's face. " _I got in._ "

Cynthia looked over at her, adrenaline couldn't quite decide whether to manifest as joy or crying so it split the difference. "Really?"

Abbie said it again, eyes sparkling. "I got in Cynthia, I got **_in"_**

* * *

 

Someone called the fire department. 

Cynthia's parents took care of everything. Fielded every inquiry. Took her by the house to see if there was anything to salvage.

But one look at the burned black wreckage of it and Abbie had heaved, voiding her stomach in a nearby bush. It was gone. All gone. All their papers, belongings, clues of who they had been, gone. Ash.

She didn't listen to reports. Didn't read the paper.

No clue what happened to Jenny.

Couldn't stand to contemplate it.

Cynthia rearranged her plans and her and Abbie went to stay with one of Cynthia's relatives for a while, helped Abbie find a job to work for the summer, just until Abbie would move into the University Dorms.

She'd chosen Juilliard. Got a scholarship. Move in day Cynthia squeezed Abbie so tight she thought she might combust. She was shaking.

"You can do anything, now, Abbie. Okay? Do this, for you, okay? And you've got my number if you need anything."

Kisses on cheeks and Abbie waved through tears as Cynthia drove away.

Her life started now.

Grace Abigail Mills, daughter of Lori and Ezra, best friend of Cynthia Pauline Irving, Survivor, loved, believed in----she ran a hand over her short curls. Cynthia had cut it the night before, lovingly washed and greased and tied it before bed, left behind some makeup too "You're gonna need that for different reasons here" she'd grinned---- New, clean, purged, fresh start.

Abbie never looked back.

Some nights though, she heard the crackle of fire in her dreams.

* * *

 

2015

"So in this scene, Dana runs through the fire---Mills! Mills we're not done here."

"I just need a _fucking minute_ Metcalfe, _hold on_."

Stunned, he stammers. "T-take your time Mills, w-we've got all day."

Ash follows her off set. "Hey."

"That goes for you too, Ashton."

"Abbie."

"I'm gonna count to five and you better be gone,"

"Look Mills, whatever's eating you, I'm here for you, alright? You can talk to me."

A deep breath.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Inhale.

Count to ten.

Exhale.

"Come back when you're ready and then we're done for a bit. You can focus on partying and gearing up for award night."

So many parties. So many fittings. Looks, styles, interviews. Her head pounds.

She doesn't answer so he heads back, leaving her alone.

"Oh God what did I get myself into" she laughs softly, sliding down to the ground.

"A lot? This looks like a helluva lot."

Abbie's eyes open and she lifts her head.

" _Cynthia?"_

"Just got in!"

"How'd you get past Metcalfe----"

"Cynthia……has….a way, with people" Crane muses, his lips twitching ever so slightly. He's pleased his heart isn't jack rabbiting so furiously today.

Abbie's heart, flutters. "Crane!..... Hey"

"Hello."

"You've died your hair."

He manages not to duck his head but his gaze shifts and his cheeks spot pink.

"I like it," she says, earnest. "It looks….it looks really good on you."

"I have Cynthia to thank," he cuts his eye at her and Cynthia snickers.

"Yeah well, we're even aren't we? Abbie aren't you going to say anything about _my_ new do? It's Crane's handiwork."

Her eyes go round. "Wow. It looks amazing…..do you think you could……"

"Give you something similar?" Crane's twinkling eyes meet hers. "Never."

"….oh."

"But something new, suited, perfected uniquely for you, the shape of your face, the slope of your neck, _yes_. In my sleep."

He says it so calmly, matter of fact, openly, that Abbie knows this isn't his work facade. Just something honest and keen.

"Mills!"

Abbie winces, "I'm needed,"

"We'll be here" Crane says, his voice warm, resonant and sure.

As Abbie turns back around, she let's herself believe he means it.

 _Really_ means it.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All flashback 2015
> 
> Some intimacies. A shift.

2015

They've wrapped, finished. They can go home and relax and freely explore other things because this season is done.

Freedom, is a most welcome, long overdue friend.

Metcalfe clasps hands with everyone in the cast in a triumphant round of applause. "I want all of you jagged puzzle pieces back here in July though, get started on season two **_SEASON TWO_ _WOOOO_** " he screams in a shocking display of exuberance that earns wary looks among the staff and cast.

"Wooo" they echo back, and go the business of packing up, saying bye, a little chatter about what they're off to next. Abbie has scripts to look at sure, but not a thing is getting done until she survives this bout of celebrations leading up to Oscar night. She's gathered her things in a haphazard pile and swoops them into a bag, throwing it over her shoulder, glad to make her escape when she's intercepted by Ash.

"My favourite leading lady!" he booms and weary as she is, Abbie can spare her last spurt of energy for him. He's really been an anchor for her these past months, never letting her drift too far away no matter how many times she may have craved it. Always returned in good humour to her side in spite of her moods. A better scene partner she couldn't ask for.

"My favourite leading man," she grumps back, throwing her arms open for a hug. " _Oof_ ," she grunts, feeling the crush of his arms around her, and then "Ash!" she thumps his back as her feet leave the ground and he continues to laugh in her ear as he gives her a spin. " _Ash Ashton_!" she yells but she's utterly unconvincing, laughter breaking through at the last minute.

When he sets her down she staggers two steps before leaning in to punch his shoulder. He cowers and crows laughter.

"Miss Mills," a voice cuts in and Abbie's pauses, immediately settling down. That could only be Crane. She looks over to where the voice came from and there he is, his expression measured, cool, even, though his clenching and unclenching hands undermine his attempt to appear professional and serene.

Abbie throws back her shoulders and flashes him a bright, what she hopes is a reassuring smile although reassure him for what? What grounds does he have to get testy about her friendship with Ash? "Ichabod! Come on, come over, this is….."

"Ash Ashton. He plays Nicolas. Your fate entwined counterpart." Each syllable ground out with such effort his whole body seems to tense.

Looking him over uneasily Abbie's eyes rove over to Ash. "…Yes….that's him…..Ash, this is my hairdr---my friend, Ichabod Crane. He's here with my best friend Cynthia Irving."

Ash's eyes light up. "Were these the friends I caught you _blushing_ about that day?"

"I wasn't….." her gaze pans to Crane who relaxed and went a little wide eyed when she introduced him as a friend. And now his eyes zero in on her, puzzling at the mention of her blushing.

"Yes you were. You were flustered about your friends calling to congratulate you."

"I---"

"I'm just teasing you, Mills! Is she always like this? She's a hard woman to read isn't she?"

"Near _impossible_ ," Crane drawls. Abbie regards him incredulously, astonished by his audacity to claim she's hard to read, when he's been rapidly oscillating between hot and cold since they met.

Ash smiles again, confident, aloof, oblivious and reaches to snag Abbie in another embrace. "You take care, have fun, I'll be looking for you on that carpet-----"

Crane bristles. "I wasn't aware you'd been nominated."

For the first time, Ash seems to register the bare hint of hostility in the air and his beaming expression dims, just a little. " _I wasn't_." he says, pointedly, smile a little tight in the corners. "I meant I'll be watching the broadcast."

Crane is too busy trying to arrest his bubbling, confounding feelings of jealousy to bother noticing he'd just thrown a barb at Abbie's co-star. And when it does dawn on him, he gives a slow smirk.

"Be sure to have snacks. While you watch." he remarks, turning to address Abbie. "Are you ready, Miss Mills?"

Something in the way that he says it this time, sounds decidedly teasing and Abbie realizes it's his flirt voice. The one he reserves for clients at work. It oozes with playful confidentiality and for a fleeting moment Abbie dares wonder if he's attempting to make Ash jealous. She'd stop him, if the idea didn't delight her, a little.

"I am, Mr. Crane," she returns in equal fashion, daring to play the game. She's answered by a sparkling twinkle in his eye and a fleeting secret smile.

Crane has gone full on into his charming persona and in the safety of this ruse he feels bold; offering his arm. The feeling of Abbie's fingers curling over his bicep makes his breath a bit shallow but he recovers smoothly. Cleanly.

He'd do well in front of a camera, she thinks absently. The way he shifts.

Getting the feeling he's been dismissed Ash gives them both a nod. "Well, I'm out, bye Abbie!…..Bye Icha---"

"Crane," he corrects, spinning on his heel and leading Abbie off with him.

Cynthia is waiting for them outside with their ride, making hurry up gestures and the pace quickens, slinging bags in the trunk.

"You guys are staying with me right?"

"Oh, we got some place down the block----" Cynthia starts before Abbie cuts her off.

"Let me try again. You're staying with me! Right. Great."

Rolling her eyes Cynthia moves to slidein beside the driver, shooing Crane to the back. There's a moment of muted flustering, Crane trying to subtly gesture and widen eyes at his friend that he can't---not that he doesn't want---but he's not sure he could survive, sitting in the back beside Abbie but at that exactly moment she pops her head over the roof and regards them both. "Are we going or….."

"We're going" Cynthia grins, ducking inside. Releasing a last huff, Crane folds himself neatly into the seat beside Abbie.

"Oh this is cozy,"

Crane jolts as his leg bumps into Abbie's. She places a hand on his knee. "It's okay, Crane, personal space is something of a phantom concept with me." She offers a small smile, feeling her face heat a touch. She hopes her words let him know she doesn't mind the proximity. 

But in fact it calls to mind for Crane how _close_ , she is with other people,frequently, and publicly, and it makes him shift a little out from under her touch. He regrets the hurt that surfaces in her eyes instantly but is too clumsy to remedy it. Her hand drops to the seat between them and she withdraws as if to scratch her leg, turning her head out the window. Cynthia implores the driver to turn up the music and she chats aimlessly with him while they drive.

In the backseat Abbie and Crane gaze out their respective windows, stilted chit chat stutter starting between them. Mundane, mind numbing in the routine of it.

How was your flight.

Oh. Well.

That's….that's good.

Excited for the week ahead?

Oh, yeah, It'll be busy.

No doubt.

Hope It's not an inconvenience,

None at all Trea---Abbie.

Abbie bites her lips hearing him catch himself and chances a gaze his way, startled when their eyes connect for a moment and then slide back away from each other, turning their heads guiltily. Inwardly Abbie groans, how they're carrying on, it's laughable.

"Stop here." Cynthia declares, grabbing her purse she hands over a couple bills to Crane who looks at her agape.

"And where are you going?"

"I've heard great things about this shop, I just want to take a look around, I'll see you guys later."

"Cynthia---" Abbie starts, sitting up straighter. "We could always come back out after we settle in----"

"No way. I've been sequestered on coach for a solid six, six hours with that one there, I need to stretch my legs on my own for a bit. I know where you're staying I'll catch up. Crane that ought to cover the fare"

Amid further protests Cynthia disembarks from the car and waves cheerfully to them, phone in hand indicating she can be reached and saunters away, vanishing into the crowd. Abbie blinks in astonishment.

"Well."

Abbie glances at Crane, slowly processing that when they get to her suite, they'll be going up alone. For God only knows how long before Cynthia decides she's had enough of her jaunt. "She's got to be tired," Abbie mutters, still shocked.

"She'll chug two cups of coffee and walk into a boutique, the designer labels will keep her awake plenty." he muses. She snorts in response, settling back into the seat.

"You know her well."

"….My best friend in town. I suppose I ought to."

"Mine too, before…." she gestures vaguely  meaning to encompass her whole life in one arc of her hand. Crane nods his understanding, running a hand through his hair restlessly. "So." she nods to his head. "Are you going to tell me how Cynthia got you?"

"Hmm?"

Abbie raises her brows and Crane guffaws. " _Oh._ This. Did it while I was sleeping, conniving wicked thing."

"Sleeping?" her voice ticks up caught off guard.

"Yes. She threatened to do so but I…..well I really didn't expect her to follow through on it. Didn't notice till I was in the shower"

"The, shower. At. Cynthia's" her mouth feels dry. Cynthia would have mentioned if there was something between her and Crane, wouldn't she?

Crane eyes her. "Yes……her home comes, equipped, with a shower,"

"Ah ha ha! Of course. But there you were, suddenlya----"

"Cherry hued red head, yes," he sniffs haughtily, and Abbie snickers. He glances sidelong at her, pleased.

"I think it suits you, really." Take another shot, Mills. She psychs herself up as she reaches forward and locks eyes with him. "May I?"

The car is stopped at a light, the music pipes around them and Crane feels as though time is suspended as he holds her brown eyed gaze. He's not even sure what he's acquiescing too, but "Yes,"

She reaches for a shock of the reddish hair on his head, twisting it curiously as the light touches it, feeling how soft it is, overcome by an inappropriate desire to thread and knot her fingers in it. She settles for a glide, instead, letting it slip through her fingers, notices some parts are fading, a few strands already back to their normal brown. "Your hair is so soft."

"Occupational obligation, that I take care of it," he grins sheepishly. "Who would trust a hairstylist with a ravished mane."

"I certainly wouldn't." she beams.

When his gaze slides away from her, it's less like an avoidance, more confidential. Nearly coy.A sort of awareness that they're sharing a joke, a pointed retreat. I stepped out of my comfort zone  there for a moment with you, don't know if you noticed.

"We're here." The driver announces. Crane counts out the money and bounds from the car, gathering their bags and then looks up at the building.

"We're here," Abbie chimes beside him.

Shoulders thrown back, he follows her.

* * *

 

Somehow Abbie forgot she had a one bedroom. Or perhaps in her excitement and eagerness to show gratitude she'd simply glossed over the fact in her own mind. Crane takes in the bare surroundings and then his gaze seems to stick and land on the lone bed.

"Thats going to be a tight fit for three," he mutters. "And I don't know if you're aware but Cynthia tends to thrash."

"You sleep together?" She blurts,eyes widening in horror. Seriously! Did she really just ask that? "I didn't say that." she rallies quickly. "I, absolutely, did not---it's none of my business anyway---- _wow_ that was rude of me---I'm sorry----I----do you guys want the bed then?----I mean!"

Her initial inquiry caught him off guard, he was prepared to stammer explanations but Abbie is doing so splendidly delivering her own nervous jibber jabber he feels his unease transforming swiftly to amusement and incredulity. Him? And _Cynthia?_

"Abbie." he chuckles.  "You're rambling."

"A heh. heh. I'm…..I'm going to…get a drink! Would you like something?"

"Water, thank you." Perhaps it's an unkind thing to think but Crane is relieved to not be the bumbling nervous one this time around, at least not the only one. It's a welcome change of pace.

Abbie returns, composed, calm and cool, offering him the glass. She clinks hers with his in a little playful toast before raising it to her lips. His mouth twists, "We have sleepovers, but not like that."

She splutters and coughs, water dripping down her chin and front of her shirt.

"Cynthia and I, I mean, that's what you were wondering?"

"It's none of my business----"

"Friends, business partners, nothing more, I assure you." he weighs each words carefully. "……..I ....I  don't think _anyone_ has ever assumed….." he trails off, the idea so comical to him he starts shaking with laughter, his eyes scrunching shut and doubling over. "Cynthia and I! I have to tell her this one."

"Oh…no…..Crane," Abbie pleads weakly. "Please don't, she'll never let me live it down, she'll call me nosey. She'll say hollywood gossip mills have warped my brain."

"That is, _quite_ a knack you've got there for speculation," he taunts, still laughing. "Poking and prodding, were it up to you Cynthia and I would be front page news,"

"I didn't know you were such a tease," she grouses, plunking down on the edge of the bed. He drains the rest of his glass.

"I didn't know you were so invested in Cynthia's relationships" 

"I'm not---"

"You were _awfully_ curious. Were you the one meddling in high school?"

As if Abbie would have had presence of mind for something as frivolous as meddling. 

"No, that was Shauna and Analiese…..I....."

"You mean to tell me you didn't spend hours talking about dreamy boys----"

More hours talking about plans for the future I didn't dare believe in.

"Crane I don't care about Cynthia's love life!" she crows. "I was asking about yours!"

The minute the words leave her lips the joviality seems to vanish from the room, replaced with something heavier, weightier. His chest rises and falls slowly before he answers. "I…..I don't date."

It's like ice has been poured over her head, Abbie springs back up. He turns, hands help up before him, stalling her. "I'm just going to use the facilities and then let's get started planning a few looks."

He turns his back.

Just like that.

Case closed.

* * *

 

They'd abandoned the earlier topic with cold finality and the creeping ease that was brewing between them dissipates, tempered by tension of things unsaid---though what things neither can be sure----and the cloistered proximity of Crane looming over her, touching her in a reverent trance while he imagines different styles, immersed in his work, Abbie, a silent muse.

It's very different than being at Whim.

This is a private location. There is something decidedly more lax, alarmingly more casual, and if he places his long fingers along her temples one more time, flutters those digits against her neck, pulling her hair up to pile on top her head, tenderly twirl a strand down the side of her face, knuckle grazing against her cheek-----Abbie might do something direly stupid. Like sigh. Or let her eyes close and lean into it.

I must be lonely, she thinks to herself, glancing at him in the mirror. He's  single minded in his focus, opening a bobby pin in his mouth before sliding it in. It's been a long time since I've dated she bites her bottom lip before wrinkling her nose.

"No, I didn't think so either," he frowns stepping away from her to rummage in his luggage Abbie finally breathes. She turns imperceptibly in the chair to watch him, her chin propped up in her palm. He frowns and gets down on his knees to dig around more for whatever has escaped him in the depths of the bag, huffing frustration. The muscles in his back tense and shift beneath his shirt. It's the first time it's properly dawned on her, the physicality of him. Crane is graceful, gentle, nuanced.

It hits her then, that he's also, strong. There's latent strength lying in those muscles, in the corded forearms. She'd say he probably just works out. Yet she suspects Crane is a man of layers. He makes a triumphant sound and turns back towards her, barely registering that she was staring at him he's so deeply enraptured with the concoction he just found and a pack of deep wave hair. As he approaches, the way he looms, Abbie takes in his height with a gulp. How had she not noticed he was tall as Ash? And nearly as broad?

You're having a severe dry spell, she convinces herself. That's got to be the reason why she's looking at Crane this way and all he's trying to do is his job.

"I think, hair down," he muses. "Look," he unwraps the pack, that sure of himself and gives it a shake.Twelve inches of hair so dark it's like night itself and holds it up by her head. "See?" he coaxes, splaying it over her shoulder. "I know you might prefer something more sleek, but this…..this would be classic, it draws the eye, because of the contrast, 'and with a mane of midnight and eyes shining bright like stars, Oscar Nominee Abbie Mills graced the red carpet," he murmurs. Abbie forgets to giggle at the joke, becoming lost in his voice instead. In the quiet Crane withdraws subtly. "That's what they'll say about you, when---"

"I got that part," she breathes, pinning him with her gaze. He fidgets.

He wonders if he's really and truly foolish enough to believe there's something truthful lying between them. Could he cast off the farce and take such a risk. He opens his mouth and stretches forward a hand just as the door clicks.

Cynthia enters, arms full of bags, laughing triumphantly. She saunters over and admires the hair Crane brought and nods. "Classic, old Hollywood?"

He gives a nod. "That's the idea."

"Perfect." she flashes a smile at them both before commandeering the shower and once out, before either one of them can protest sheflings herself on the couch, bundling up with a blanket and cushion, nestling down for slumber.

Leaving the one bed, to share between them. They exchange glances before Crane stretches. "Maybe it is time to clean up, settle in….."

"Crane?"

He pauses. "Yes?"

She feels stupid asking because he'd done this before and yet this feels different, or at least, she wants it to feel different. "I'm going to wash my hair, will you help me with it after?"

* * *

 

The smell of flowers and coconut wafts off her skin, little droplets of water still clinging to her as she emerges in her sleep clothes. A pair of silk material pants, slung low on her hips. A strip of dark flesh separates from the matching camisole that falls over her bosom. His fingers flex and his collar heats. This, is far, far beyond how close he has ever allowed himself to be to a client and try as he might to dismiss thoughts of her as a sort of trifling fixation and maintain professional boundary, it grows sorely more difficult to do so. He's been chafing at her admission that she was inquiring about his personal life earlier all evening.

He's not a stranger to being fancied or admired, he knows in a detached way, he has a socially passable face and build. But it's him, the person, underneath who they hope he is, who they thought he would be, that's proven time and again to not be up to scratch. Abbie might find him attractive and lose her head enough to be interested, butcould she really want, just him?

Not the flirt.

Not the charmer.

Not the suave air that functions, flatters and gets by.

But just, him.

Quietly craving intimacy, understanding, something that feels frightening in its intensity-----so few people in the past, when he tried to date----had had the patience for him with it.

They'd wanted the dashing stylist to pull their well coiffed locks and whisper hot, breathless, forbidden things on their necks. Wanted his nimble hands to turn rough and chase after their mouth as they thrashed, pinned against a wall.

They wanted a fantasy.

A fling.

Something fleeting.

And Crane was almost incapable of mustering any arousal for clandestine meetings. It alarms him then, that the simplest things about Abbie seems as though they could tempt him. Tempt him to hope she'd want more from him, than just a drink to quench her thirst.

She approaches him on the bed, hair still wadded up in a t-shirt and she turns around, sitting cross legged on the bed before him. He's still got a lot of height, even sitting down, so he let's his legs splay out on either side of her as he unravels the t-shirt, gently sapping excess water.

He works slowly.

Cynthia turns every now and again with a grunt, flinging a limb in an obscure angle, he grimaces to watch. "She's going to have a kink in that," he tsks, parting, greasing, Abbie relaxes under his hands. He rests a hand on her shoulder, giving her a light squeeze. Her eyes snap open, alert. "I hope you're not dozing on me," he whispers, very close to her ear.

She chortles guiltily. "Your hands are very soothing, Crane. It can't be helped."

He hums agreeably ashe finishes one twist and moves to another.

"…..Crane?"

"Yes?"

"I really didn't mean to pry, you know, about earlier….." her voice trails off, words lost and obscured around a yawn.

"Almost done" he says softly, turning the strands over and under. "Stay awake Treasure just….."

She gives a little nod and Crane huffs with a smile. She's fighting off sleep valiantly but she's about to lose. He's just finished off the last one when she lurches to the side and he catches her before she tumbles off the bed, cradling her in his arms his heart pounds so aggressively it feels nearly painful. He turns and carefully arranges her on the bed, looks through his bag for a bonnet and eases it, very, very carefully onto her head before he grabs a blanket and pulls it up to her chin. Abbie tucked in, he heads for the shower.

* * *

 

The bed dipping beside her startles her awake.

Her whole being tenses. She holds her breath.

She waits for words and blows.

Then remembers where she is. She lets out a breath, slowly, slowly, like a hiss, but still she shudders. It's very cold, the blanket is thin. She blinks at Crane slinging his arms into his night shirt and turning around to lie beside her when he catches her looking.

"Oh."

"Hi."

"I didn't mean to wake….."

"Sssh." she presses a finger to her lips. Crane watches her, moonlight cutting a swathe of illumination across her visage, eyes shimmering at him. His brow furrows when he notes the way she bunches up the blanket, pulling it up to her ear. He straightens out, let's his head hit the pillow and turns toward her.

"Are you cold?" he breathes. She nods shyly, teeth chattering.

"Yeah,"

He swallows and shifts, slightly closer. "I……if you would like….."

Without finishing Abbie shuffles closer until they're nearly chest to chest. With a deep breath he throws an arm around her waist, curving the other around her shoulder and Abbie burrows into is warmth, exhaling. "Why are you so toasty," she groans.

That surprises a laugh from him. She feels it rumbling through his chest. She likes the sound of it, likes the feel of him so close.

This is strange and dangerous territory yet she can't muster the sense to put any distance between them.

"Abbie," his voice sounds above her crown. "You're still shivering."

"……sometimes I have nightmares."

A beat of silence before she feels his chin briefly touch the top of her head and his arms tug her closer. He forgets himself, or else he'd probably think twice of letting his hands rub soothing circles on her back. "I understand." is all he says. The tone of his voice makes her think he says it as more than just a platitude,but it's late and they're both tired, too tired for her to go poking and prodding again.

So, "Thanks" she says, breath puffing against is chest she reaches back for him, bunching a hand in the back of his shirt and he releases a sigh as they fall asleep.

* * *

 

Oscar night Abbie gasps at the beautiful shimmering silvery white gown. It has a boat cut neckline, skims her figure and a glimmering train that trails elegantly behind her. It's a dream.

This is happening.

Cynthia and Crane work on her hair, faster with four hands instead of two and when finished whistle appreciatively at their own handiwork. Cynthia's eyes are over bright as she grabs for her makeup kit. She falls into thoughtful silence as she blends in concealer and foundation, applying powder to set while she works on Abbie's eyes.

"What are you thinking,"

Her lips purse as she sweeps a darker shade in the crease and then dabs in a shimmering silvery grey colour on the palette, pressing it daintily across the lid. "Last time I did your makeup," she replies simply, moving toward the other eye. "……I never got to do this, back then. Abbie I'm so proud of you."

"You're going to make me _cry_." Abbie admonishes, lips tight.

"I wouldn't dare," she laughs, gripping the eye liner she cuts the perfect wing before she winces. "Ah."

"You alright?"

"Just a cramp," she shakes her hand a few times to get it out but it tightens up on her again when she reaches for the lipstick. " _Oooh_ , damn. Crane?"

He looks up from the bag of tools he's repacking.

"Could you?" she gestures toward Abbie's all finished face, except for her pout.

Standing, taking the lipstick in hand and twiddling his fingers over Cynthia's brush set finds the lip brush. There had been a makeup unit in school, of course, he'd done well in it, but he hadn't had much use for it over the years. Cynthia never stopped taking makeup clients and working with productions in town when she could, he's always just deferred to her. Tonight though, this is on him.

Abbie looks back at him with eyes that glitter and seem wider than should be allowed. How can they look both sultry and bright, he wonders, thinking its grossly unfair, especially the way she watches him, as if trying to see through him. Since they'd shared that bed there had been a hint of closeness between them that was as murky as it was intriguing.

He puts his fingers to her chin and she lifts her head obediently for him, lips slightly parted. Delicately, he dabs the brush and treating Abbie's full lips like a masterpiece on which he adds the finishing touches, begins to paint.

The colour is an inviting, healthy looking rose hue to perfectly offset the drama of her eyes. He watches the brush move precisely along the lower lip, soft, pliant under the pressure. Her breathing is very light, ghosting across his finger tips as he works. At one moment she swallows and her lips close, brushing his knuckles, like a bare kiss,and he misses his stroke, a streak of pigment going off the corner of her mouth. Without thinking he reaches to wipe it away with his thumb, cupping her chin with the other hand to keep her steady while he gently, carefully smudges it away.

It takes them both a moment to notice he's holding her in a position to kiss her. The insane thought flits across his brain and he bats it away, but not before runninghis thumb below her lower lip, right along the rim, catching any excess that managed to bleed. He would also secretly admit to seizing an opportunity to conduct a small inventory of her lips, how soft, how full, how, beautiful they are, this close. "Beautiful,"

She blinks slowly at him.

Catching himself, Crane withdraws. "You look beautiful Abbie. Stunning."

Abbie peers into the mirror, gives her head a little shake, admiring her reflection.

_"Who you got to look pretty for?"_

She blinks hard several times, "Crane, Cynthia…..thank you so much." Cynthia calls from the washroom where she was running water on her hand.

"Anytime Abbie."

Abbie looks over her shoulder at Crane, searching. Momentarily she sees something flicker in his eyes, a kindling, before he smiles at in it dims, retreated back under the surface.

_"Who would want you?"_

"Absolutely, Treasure. Anytime."

* * *

 

"And the academy award winner for Best Leading Actress is……Abbie Mills!"

A variety of hands squeezing her arms, clapping her shoulder, leaping up to give her embraces as she journeys up to the stage. Steady Mills, Steady, she coaches as she ascends the steps and drifts over to accept her award. Happy, surprised tears cling to her lashes. Under the spotlight, she shines.

There will be articles and covers the rest of the week, raving about her style at her Red Carpet debut. They'll have her in interviews like a revolving door. She'd been overwhelmed just walking the carpet earlier in the evening, so many babbling question about who was she wearing, who did her hair and makeup. She answered them all with a gracious smile, eager to be relieved from the crush of people. But at this moment.

She looks off into the audience of her peers, feels the heat of lights on her skin. This is hers. Memories playback in her mind, laughing loving parents, recitals, pageants, her joy.

Her grimacing sister in the background.

Mama, mama always encouraging and loving her.

The accident.

Her loss.

Her survival.

Darkness.

Constant berating, blame.

Pain. 

Flames.

The home she lost.

The ashes she rose from.

The clapping and cheers dies down just as she gathers herself and steps up to the mic.

"I want to thank, God the Almighty above, for keeping me. Through _everything_ , keeping me." applause starts again, barely contained. She goes on.

"My mom and dad, God rest your souls, I love you so much thank you for nurturing me, believing in me I miss you _so **much**_. To my mentors and co-stars, your gracious guidance, pushing my limits, challenging me. Denise, writer of this amazing script. The family at Sweetie Productions, the Measures cast. Thank you. To Cynthia Pauline Irving," she breaks, sniffles, mouth screwing up into a teary smile. "You know what for. Best friend I could have asked for. Wouldn't be here without you. _Really_ wouldn't.And….Ichabod Crane…..for the warmth when I was so, _so cold......_ Thank _you_."


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh. Alot of things.   
> Still all past 2015 picks up immediately after Abbie's Oscar win.

"Warmth?" Cynthia's gaze had slid toward Crane as they watched from the room, Crane, holding his breath the minute Abbie had graced the stage.

He and Cynthia had been milling about, taking their tools out again and discussing how they would arrange Abbie's hair for the after party, the broadcast playing the background as they worked companionably side by side. Only turning to face the screen when Cynthia had exclaimed "Look look look!"

Crane dropped what he was doing then, taking a seat beside her and watching rapt as Abbie shimmered and drifted from one personality to another, all shining and eagerly jockeying for their chance to interview the first time nominee. "Oh wow look at her" Cynthia gushed, her eyes glittering bright.

"She's breathtaki--Cynthia are you crying?"

"If you knew what…..it doesn't matter, I'm just so beyond happy she's up there. That I could be there for her, that we could, you know? It means a lot," then she was blinking rapidly and excusing herself for tissues before Crane could ask anything else. He turned back to the tv and watched Abbie laugh and smile, looking so, incredible, knowing it was his work he felt a flush of pride, but also a sort of closeness, remembering the slivers of vulnerable moments they'd shared in the brief time.

Then someone was asking about her hair and makeup and she said "Cynthia Irving and Ichabod Crane at Whim Salon are consummate professionals and masters of what they do, I trust them implicitly, I've been going to them exclusively for a few months now."

"You guys heard it, if you want to look this stunning, the place to be is Whim Salon of Sleepy Hollow"

"Oh…..dear" Crane muttered, bewildered.

"Did she just….."

"Name drop us? I believe so….."

Cynthia gave a watery chuckle. "I'm sure it's nothing…..no one will hardly remember by the end of the night anyway."

And after that all of their tasks were done so they settled in to watch the rest, clutching each others hands in a near death grip when Abbie's category was announced. And then a brief moment of leaping happiness when she won.

"YAY ABBIE"

"Cynthia she can't _hear_ you,"

"She can hear my spirit"

"Sssh."

And Abbie said her heartfelt, beautiful speech. Thanked God. Thanked her Parents. Thanked creative teams and peers. Thanked Cynthia. And then, "And….Ichabod Crane…..for the warmth when I was so, _so cold_. Thank _you."_

" ** _Warmth_** ," Cynthia repeats now, waving a hand before Crane's dazed face.

Abbie called his name. In her acceptance speech. Her Oscar acceptance speech. Thanked him. For warmth. Warmth. Publicly.

"Crane," Cynthia prods. "Cr---Crane," she gently rocks his shoulder until he blinks and turns to her. "Are you going to elaborate?"

"She was cold,"

"When?"

"When we were sleeping….."

"And……"

"……..Cynthia."

"Crane."

"Cynthia."

"You're my two closest friends you know," she huffs. "If anyone knows either of you, it's me, maybe remember that sometimes, would you?"

"It was nothing," he insists though he can barely look his friend in the eye as he says it. It hadn't been nothing to him, by default it was more, a stolen, sweet moment of comfort, a dreamy haze from which they awoke come morning. But to know it hadn't simply been 'nothing' to Abbie either, indeed that it had mattered enough for her to remark upon it to the masses, his mind was spinning and he was unsure if he was feeling hopeful or sick. Instead of attempting to guilt him into sharing Cynthia twists her mouth, reaching over to ruffle his hair.

"Well, whatever it was, you were good at it, it helped her, obviously, when she needed it, so thanks, my dear friend, for taking care of my other, very dear friend."

"Stop it."

She playfully tugs his ear. "Never."

* * *

 

They're waiting after when Abbie finally resurfaces, award in hand and looking a little weary if not over stimulated by the rush of the night. Measures also won best picture, to double the shine and gleam of the night. They congratulate her and Cynthia unabashedly sweeps her up in hugs and kisses her cheek. "Congrats congrats congrats so proud of you! We both are,"

"Cynthia I can't breathe!"

"Hang on just soak up this oscar winning goodness a little longer."

Abbie taps her friends back and feigns wheezing. "I'm going to….pass out….."

"You're so dramatic." Cynthia grins, pulling away and taking the statue from Abbie's hands set its on the dresser, giving it a nice polish on her shirt before going to the garment bag hanging on the door. "Now hurry up, out of that, and I'll run this back to the designer….."Cynthia's voice trails off as she unzips one dress and begins arranging makeup wipes and new colours to be applied to Abbie's face. At that same moment her phone rings and she answers. "Now is not the time Hawley---- Abbie, Hawley says congrats."

"Who's Hawley?"

"He lives to annoy Cynthia," Crane replies, only briefly considering the fact that Nick had Cynthia's personal number. "Does our supplies and such…..but, congratulations Treasure, how does it feel?"

The wind leaves him when she throws her arms around his middle, pressing her face close to his chest. He has no choice, and what a blessed way to be backed into a corner, but to return the embrace, ensconcing her in his arms, feeling her tremble just slightly. "Abbie?"

"Amazing," she shudders, voice muffled as she speaks into his shirt. "It feels amazing. I never thought…I never could have dreamed……" Her shaking increases as her fingers bunch in his shirt. "Sometimes I wasn't sure if I even deserved-----"

He pulls away to look at her, "What are you talking about? I've seen you on screen, there's no one I can think of someone who deserves this more."

"Do I?" she sniffles, looking away from him. "After everything…..maybe I do…..sometimes…." she sighs and leans away from him, wiping tears from her eyes. "Sometimes it's just hard to believe you deserve things. Whether they've come to you or not."

Her words tug at him, stinging someplace forgotten and parcelled away.

"Well you deserved this, without a doubt."

"Abbie come on, come on," Cynthia interrupts blustering over and swiftly yanking down the zipper of Abbie's dress and somehow slinging her arms through a silk robe at the same time. Abbie laughs through Cynthia's quick change antics and nimbly steps out of the silver garment pooling on the floor, tottering for support still in her heels she clutches Crane's forearm. She's barely out of it before Cynthia sweeps the gown over her arm, hangs it, zips it back in it's bag and is grasping for the door.

"Wait, Cynthia---" Crane begins but the door slams behind her as she swishes out. Abbie releases him with a chuckle.

"She gets that from working back stage, theatre is a bit of an every persons job sometimes, she helped with costume changes."

"Ah." When he turns back from the door he pauses, seeing Abbie turned from the bed and casually shirking the robe. "I'm sure Cynthia will be back soon-----"

"Don't worry about it Crane. I think all this requires isa zip up,"

She continues letting it fall from her shoulders, turning around to flop in a heap on the bed to rest her feet. He gulps taking her in.

On screen is one thing. A distant, fabricated, stylized thing. In flesh, quite another. The under garments are simple, functional, well fitting and nude in tone. It is different to see so much of Abbie so much skin, that hasn't been retouched and lit by professionals. Skin that glitters because he knows Cynthia dusted light shimmering powder on her shoulders.Skin that moves across muscles and limbs casually, and not in some heated roiling fit of passion, panned over expressly to capture the rapture of her arched back and undulating hips.

She is still, here. Human, and less of an ocular fantasy, a story teller, but a real woman, who in all her beauty, merely looks a little tired, and is sticking her foot out shyly, twirling it in a small circle with an embarrassed smile. "Crane?" she asks. "Could you help me with these? And please tell me there's something just a touch more sensible to go with the other dress?" she jokes.

His nerves ratchet up to one hundred but he ambles over calmly, sinking down to bended knee and fleetingly picturing himself prince charming and she Cinderella, but in reverse, as his trembling fingers reach out to unbuckle the crisscrossing strap and winds it from around her ankle, his jitters seem to shrink away,fingers skimming along her footas he pries it off and she exhales in relief, wriggling her freed toes. "Thank you," she groans gratefully "Those were starting to burn" without preamble extends her other foot and more surely, breathing evenly, he helps her out of the other one.

"There," he leans back finds himself nearly at eye level with her there, bare shoulders and hair cascading and her lipstick still on in perfect place, overcome by a dangerous urge to smear it off.

"Thanks."

"Think nothing of it," he nods, standing to step away but she catches at his hand. "Really, Abbie."

"Crane….." her eyes tick toward the door, as if anticipating an interruption. "I meant what I said, tonight, about…."

" _Warmth,_ " he rasps.

Her cheeks colour. "Yeah."

"You're very, very welcome. Anytime." and feels heat wash over him.

"Anytime?" she wheedles, tugging him just a little closer.

"Abb--Absolutely."

"…..I thought, maybe…." she trails off. "Maybe you weren't…..that you didn't…."

Curiosity, amid his nerves, quirks a brow and the next step he takes is of his own volition. "What,"

"That….I don't know…..you don't….date….."

"No…." he replies cautiously, unsure of the turn it's taking. Nearly dreading it.

"Is it because….because……"

"…….Because, _what_ , Abbie."

"…..I….I really don't even know……do you not like….."

"Like, _what,_ " the more she tiptoes the more defensive he grows. It hard to know which wall to erect when you're not sure from which side they're coming, so he raises them all, slowly, wheeling canons and bringing down wrought iron gates.

"Sex?" She drops her hand immediately as she says it, releasing him, feeling ashamed.

"Pardon **_me?_** "

"I mean you don't….why don't you date. You're a good looking guy, you must have them banging down your door……Unless you don't like….."

"Meaningless, things?"

At that Abbie flinches, it's not often she's touches a nerve with Crane. He tends to open up and retreat at his own pace, sure, without warning, but until now Abbie has never had the acute sense that she's treaded some place a little tender. "Well….dating can be fun….and….if you have, chemistry….."

"Is that why you were asking" he asks, his tone turning a bit hard. He wishes he could stop himself from spiralling it, aligning it with so many instances before of people who wanted the idea of him but not the person he is----People for whom he'd thought it obvious his depth of care only to have wrought a misunderstanding so grandiose it had counted as his single greatest heartache and had presented the risk of gut wrenching loss----but in this moment a defensive, distrustful little imp rears it's head and sneers 'She's just like the rest of them. She just wants to roll you around,' and then almost maliciously, disgusted, reviling him continued, 'And you'd _let_ her. You don't even care, _you'd let her_." And that thought makes him so irrationally angry with his own mind and heart that the next thing he says can't be stopped, won't be turned around. "You wondered if we could have a time? A romp? Something fleeting, brief, meaningless?"

Her skin is hot with shame. "N-n-no, Crane, that's…." well, perhaps that is what she'd been entertaining, if she's being honest. She did muse about loneliness earlier in the day. It's been months since she was with someone. Abbie hasn't thought long term about relationships, in a while, if ever.

Trust, feelings, building on something and relying on people, those principles were rather thoroughly demolished by Jennifer's mishandling. She trails off knowing even then she can't tell a convincing lie. She's been lonely. She doesn't see Crane as only a thing, no, she would like to get to know him, but if asked if she was ready to open her heart, no matter how willing she is in theory, to want and believe it is one thing, to do, quite another.

"Understand this." he grits, advancing still, seeming to have forgotten all prior anxieties. The energy rolling off of him is nearly hostile. He feels foolish, stupid. To think he's been building and fluffing up things in his mind so much, so much hope, day dreaming, wondering and to for her to prove to be no different---and yet he still somehow doesn't properly care---it disgraces him. He's distraught with himself. He can't really be so blindly ready to set him self up like this can he? Surely he knows once someone shows who they are he should believe them but yet here he is still and for some reason years of things tempered and managed rile up and spill"I am not a single man because I don't want, or crave, sex. It's because I get no pleasure from playing fantasy, play _thing,_ for people who don't care to know who I really am, who have no patience for me to discover them, learning everything about them, filling my heart and days and life with them until I could _consume them whole,_ "

Abbie opens her mouth to protest but emits a sort of whimper instead, shrinking in on herself, aware of her state of undress, the fact that Crane seems decidedly almost angry with her and yet she wants this, it's probably the most straightforward and clear thing Crane has ever been so she finds herself almost craving this rawness, whatever it brings. Some part of her fears it'll be pain.

She's known a lot of that.

Some part of her dares to think with him though, that pain could be worth something. 

"I hold myself apart because to keep throwing open the doors for numerous trespassers is a futile, exhausting, gesture, and I am a man of time, and patience, a whole house, not just a pretty facade to--to--to muse over and-----"

"More than a shell," she rasps at last. "I see that…."

"Do you?" he cuts her off accusingly. "Or just someone you can wield your----your----craft on? Brief, insignificant, artificial, an-an--an-an-an act, a p-p-part you can play with?"

"I----"

"A scene to perform" he growls and then his thumb his smudging the lipstick off her mouth marring the pretty picture he helped create and yet she doesn't move or even recoil. Like she's practiced in this, expects rough handling.

_"Who you got to look pretty for?"_

She was right.

Does it matter what I dress myself in? How I decorate myself? I'll always just be me, underneath. Frightened, scared, scrappy creature. Skittish.

Through Cranes gesture is gentler than Jennifer had ever been, even the aggression of the act itself was tempered in the smooth sweep of thumb and even now his fingers linger, his chest heaves and his eyes are wide, it would seem almost in terror or fright but he can't even be bothered to listen to his own reasoning, to be properly aghast at what he's done before his mouth is crashing into hers.

He swallows her gasp of surprise. Truthfully she'd been expecting nearly anything but gentleness, but the coaxingpressure of lips and perhaps the shock of it is why her lips part so easily, tilting her head back to give him leverage to forge deeper, her tongue surging to meet his, craving it. She gets enough nerve to clutch his collar and haul him impossibly closer and feels the tug of his fingers in her beautifully coiffed hair, undoing all his own handiwork. She wants more control of the situation so she pulls her self up, grasping shirt and arms to meet him, only a little more equally, and forcing him to buckle, as if she means to fight him for dominance of this moment butwhen she reaches to pull their bodies closer he breaks away from her, eyes blown wide and gasping.

He looks miserable.

Haunted.

"And…scene."

"Crane."

"There. Your fling. Your fantasy," he reaches to wipe lipstick off his mouth with the back of his hand, "Th-there you go."

She is half naked with a smudged face and her hair is mussed, she can't seem to catch her breath it's like she was drowning and then heaved up on shore. Shipwrecked. Disoriented.

"Isn't that what you wanted to know? Because you were….cooking up whatever thoughts in your head? Wasn't that it? Was it enough for you? Are you satisfied?" he asks, all the heat gone from his voice. He's talking about himself if he's being truthful. Wasn't he the one barely keeping his own brittle hopes and fantasies at bay. He's turned his insecurities on her in a horrible weak display and he feels shame for it.  His eyes turn away from hers.

She can't find the words to reply. 

The adrenaline running through Abbie makes her want to take him at a leap and demand, _answers,_ for him treating her that way, she would draw answers from his lips through her body pressed against his own, fingers exploring his skin, since he claims he can feel so damn much she would pull all that feeling up and out of him, tear screams and gasps and moans from his lungs. She would consume him, since he thinks he's the only one capable of a voracious appetite. She would make him so hot he'd burst into flame.

She would dredge up everything within him that keeps him bound so tight, captive in his own head. Wound so tight, taut like a bow string----

"Oh my _God,_ " he gasps suddenly, burying his face in his hands. "Oh my God, That, that was…..so, inappropriate, unprofessional,…..how….how could I…..I'm so…..Miss Mills I----"

She wishes it didn't feel like such a slap for him to go back to that. But it does. She's irritated with him, balling her hands tight.

"I am so sorry, that, Miss Mills, that never should have happened, I deeply apologize I….I don't know what came over me…."

"I didn't mind,"

He startles, looking up at her completely dismayed, scandalized. Appalled.

"I……still need help with my dress."

He stays where he is for a beat, flexing his fingers, watching as Abbie moves in silent motion, unearthing her dress for the evening. Shorter number, in a vivid emerald green, form fitting, snug thing, with some open side panels, crisscrossed and bedazzled, making her silhouette ripple and shine. She manages jumping in it and fiddles wordlessly getting her arms through the straps. Turned away from him, she is inwardly fuming and second guessing every thing that happened over the course of the past hour. Maybe she shouldn't have mentioned him in the speech. What had she been trying to say anyway? What had she hoped it would achieve, what did she want it to mean? Did it mean anything? Did she have to make a spectacle of it that way? Straps on and twisting herself a little in the bodice to make sure the panels fall right she reaches around and struggles with the zipper that goes up nearly too high. She's turned one arm over her shoulder and one reaching up her back to tug it the last little bit when she feels warm slender fingers meet her own. She snatches her hands back to herself as if scalded.

"Sorry," Crane mutters, his breath ruffling her hair. "Truly, that was deeply…out of bounds."

"It's alright."

"Miss Mills"

She steps quickly away from him, all done up and moves to the mirror, grabbing a wipe to clean off the reckless, telling smear of pink on her lips. "It's fine Crane, it was nothing. Consider it forgotten."

Off the hook, relief, he should welcome it for this outburst but instead something burns, crisps and turns to ash in his heart. He know he was out of line and should call it a blessing to so willingly move past it and yet----he's still, dumb enough to hope it wasn't a complete mistake.

Abbie tosses the makeup wipe carelessly across the vanity and moves to take a seat instead, gazing at herself. She catches his eye in the mirror. "Were….were you going to do something different….with my hair?"

"Yes, I……"

the door creaks open and Cynthia bounds back in, clapping excitedly. "Abbie this dress, wow, you're going to be on so many best dressed lists."

Abbie shoots her a smile but it doesn't quite reach her eyes and Cynthia recognizes the half lit expression. Senses that the jovial atmosphere has shifted in her brief absence. Crossing to Abbie before the mirror Cynthia begins reaching for pins and setting to work, they're staying to theme of an old hollywood glam look, only up instead of down. She acknowledges the silence as she pins up lock after lock. "Something happen in here? Did I miss anything?"

They lock eyes in the mirror.

They don't say a word.

They keep Cynthia out on the boarders.

They keep each other out at sea.

Her phone rings, and not a soul moves to answer it.

* * *

 

It's quicker getting ready for the party than the ceremony, she's up out the chair in no time, Cynthia had taken over her hair and finished up with retouching her makeup, went for a nude lip this time with some gloss, offered her the shoes, glittering dainty looking things that were at least an inch shorter than the previous heels for which she was grateful and in no time was ushering out to the elevators.

Abbie just wishes she could lie down but an Oscar After party snub would have her in the pages as a snob first thing, they'd write that she was already letting the win go to her head and had thought she was better than hobnobbing with her peers, so, away she'll go. Crowds of faces and low music and Abbie loves a party as much as anyone, and she should be thrilled to celebrate but she's still deeply out of sorts after what ever the hell you'd call that with Crane, and not to mention all of her oldest pains and insecurities have come to visit tonight, making for an unpleasant collision. She's not in a party mood, not up to keeping up more appearances.

It's desperation that makes her plea, "Cynthia will you come with me. Please." she persists when her friend begins to babble in shock. "Please, I….this sounds so stupid but I'm tired, but I have to go, and…..just someone I won't have to pretend for. Someone I won't have to lose myself quicker in booze and music so that I can be convincing for? Please?"

"Crane too?" Cynthia eyes her carefully.

Abbie schools her face to be perfectly neutral. She direly wants to say no he's a great source of her internal unrest; but then Cynthia will ask why and she's one thousand percent positive she doesn't want to go through rehashing the events of the evening. She nods "Sure, sure bring him."

Abbie's not even sure if this is typical.

But she did name the pair as stylists and up until that speech, she'd referred to them both as friends. She doesn't dare hedge bets on what she is with Crane, right now, other than crackling, sparking tension that now she knows the burn of it, makes her insanely crave more, or the tender vulnerability that sags into a sweet, careful comfort, an accommodating safe place. She wishes it could be one or the other, she wishes there was some sort of balance there but it's like being stuck in a boat with one paddle, endlessly churning in circles, circling, circling circling----

"Abbie."

"Hmm?"

"You drifted off there."

"……Oh."

"I said, wait here a minute, I'll stuff Crane in something and we'll be right down, okay?" a brief hug and Cynthia skips back upstairs. Abbie ambles into the car, relaying the change of plans and waits.

I should have told her no, to hell with it. I shouldn't have let her……

The car door opens and he slides in beside her, midnight blue collared shirt and slacks. It's bare and minimal but she can tell they're nice materials. The sharp contrast to the of the dark palette to his complexion and fading red hair paints him an attractive menace. He glances at her once and then away. Abbie could kick herself for wanting so badly for him to look at her. Cynthia enters next, demure deep purple satin dress. "It's a good thing I went shopping yesterday, huh?"

Crane screws up his mouth begrudgingly. "I appreciate your, investment, in my wardrobe, Cynthia." he offers a smile. "Thank you." 

"I think I did good, don't you Abbie?"

"I love that colour on you Cynthia."

"And what about Crane? I like this shade of blue don't you, what do you think----"

"He looks like a bad decision you'd make twice." she manages, turning away from them both, fixing her eyes staunchly out the window.

 


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flashback to highschool past for Crane 
> 
> Prom season.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning.  
> This chapter contains characters exhibiting homophobia and sexual assault.

Past

Evie, short for Evelyn Spencer was the popular girl.

The one with the bouncy fluffy curls in a box dye shade of honey blond, eyes a bright ice blue. All legs and smiles for the guys. All claws and sneers for the girls who weren't in her circle. Double heaping of manufactured sweetness for Strange Crane, the attractive odd ball who despite raging hormones in senior year didn't seem moved one way or another to swap fluids with any peers.

Sure, the guys called him a pansy out of ear shot. Course, they chattered about his bad temper, heard he took martial arts but wouldn't join a school team. And he kept to himself, except to slink around with Nathaniel, in all his fragile pale glory, lithe limbed creature, bony but no muscle, and Tanya, with her features in sharp, dark contrast to Evie; everything Evie was not. Tanya had filled out in a way of a girl who let nature take its course and was still a little shy about how it showed on her figure. Evie had eagerly sought to amplify and prop up the fruits of puberty, wielding them readily on any and all that she wanted. And Evie decided, she wanted Crane.

She'd been in his chair before. While he'd been washing her hair, she'd winked an eye open and admired the sharp angles of his face, the long, romantic looking hair. Had marvelled that his hands, so large and long could be soft and gentle-----the guys at school weren't sweet. They pushed and prodded and rough handled---sometimes she liked it, but she had wondered what it would feel like if those inexperienced, graceful hands were on her. Crane had become something like a fantasy, a myth, an island, undiscovered except for his two friends and Evie wanted to shatter it. Wanted to prove that if anyone could snag the unpredictable, adorable stork, it would be her.

And contrary to popular belief, Evie was smart, though not as smart as Tanya. Maybe if she had dared to acknowledge she harboured jealousy towards the other girl Evie might have seen the ulterior motive in her pursuit of Crane----to take something a little weird and precious---away from Tanya Jenkins. At least, during what was left of the school year. She had a plan. For the past two months she'd been sitting beside Crane in calculus, one of few classes in which Tanya and Nathaniel weren't present, and had been offering to help him with the questions he struggled on. He was reluctant to accept the help, adorably a little suspicious but he allowed it, this tentative class based bond.

Caught up to him a few times after school, talking aimlessly and sometimes getting a smile. A nervous chuckle. Flushed cheeks if she 'accidentally' brushed her hand against his. Evie was sure she had him.

* * *

 

"So,"Evie wheedled one afternoon. Prom was coming up in two weeks, and hot on the heels of that final assignments and exams.Crane was just leaving his elective class down on the first floor, he was taking cooking and had stayed after hours, trying, and burning his test piece. Evie must have just gotten out of cheer practice, sauntering from the direction of the gym. She slung an arm casually, too familiar, around his shoulder, twirling a lock of hair around her finger."what are you doing later,"

"Oh……I…..have some studying to do….."

"I could help you," Evie chimed brightly, leaning in too close. "I could tutor you,"

"…..I appreciate the offer……"

"There's a lot of things, I could show you, ya know, Crane,"

Sweat beading up on his neck. Heat creeping up his collar. Face flushing.

"What?"

"Hey, are you going to Prom?"

The question had made him inwardly cringe. His friends were. Together. Things seemed to be shifting, changing in a manner he couldn't put his finger on. Yet somehow, they were all playing at it being the same. Right after, Nathaniel had shot him a smile. "You'll be there, right Ichabod?"

He'd nodded, "Course," ignoring Nathaniel's fingers loosely clutching Tanya's own. Where once she would have reached for Crane in kind, at this moment, she hadn't.

"Crane?"

"Yes" he replied, shaking his head to clear it. "….Yes, I'll…..I'm going."

"You got a date?"

That, had seemed a complicated question. "Not…exactly….but"

Evie took his hands in hers, planting herself firmly before him and flashed what was her most charming, beaming smile. "Then go with me," she'd entreated. "We'll have fun, I promise, do the whole experience together……" she trailed off when Crane didn't respond the way she imagined and changed tact. "Or keep it low key,"

"That sounds best,"

"I'll pick you up, though," she insisted, and then had released him, leaning in to peck his cheek. He was too stunned to pull away. Too tongue-tied to call her back and tell her he'd changed his mind. The image of his friends sitting before him, holding hands on a bench, a pair, was haunting him.

Maybe that's the way I'm supposed to be, too. He'd thought, making up his mind to give it a shot, it was just one night, any way, one dance. He could figure out if maybe there was something beyond the safety of their trio. Somewhere else he should be. Some else to be with. 

* * *

 

Crane almost asked Tanya if she thought he was making a mistake, the night he was doing her hair. Both she and Nathaniel had looked at him a little odd when he'd told them he wouldn't be riding with them to the reception hall. "Evelyn asked me."

Nathaniel had dropped his pencil, sliding his round wire spectacles just to the edge of his nose and raised a skeptical brow. "Evelyn? _Evie?_ Evie _Spencer?_ "

He'd bristled at Nathaniel's tone, feeling irritated. "Yes," he'd shot back, more defensive than was warranted.

" _Evie Spencer_ asked you?" he continued, his growing disbelief more insulting with ever repetition.

"There's nothing wrong with me,"

Nathaniel pushed his glasses back up his nose and sighed. "No, Crane, it's just…..this is Evie…..used to date Ronald, _and_ Chad….and you're……"

"I'm _what,_ Nathaniel."

A gulp. A soft look. "You."

Pain, anger, confusion swarmed rapidly to the surface. "And what's that supposed to mean? Am I defective? is there something wrong with me why she shouldn't want to go?"

"Whoa, no, no, Crane, I just don't understand why you."

"I don't know if you understand why you not understanding is very hard for _me_ to understand!"

"Nate," Tanya interjected.

"I'm sorry, Crane, I didn't mean, you know…..we just." he deflated then, perhaps realizing there was no carrying on this conversation without inadvertently making it worse and so had said, "Sorry. It won't matter anyway, right, we'll all be there, we'll have a good time."

The whole exchange had left Crane feeling queasy, unsure and even worse very annoyed, a level of hurt and betrayal that was maddening and scary in the same breath. Did Nathaniel think Evie was too, too, smart? Too pretty? For him? Was she too good for him? somehow? Crane had tried to forget how he had nearly demanded why Nathaniel had found it so impossible to believe that maybe someone else could want his company, why, just because you two have decided to cut me out? But the moment he thought it he'd felt ashamed. Out of line. Where did he get off, feeling that way?

But in the solace of his kitchen, sleeves rolled up and his suit waiting upstairs, very carefully wielding a curling iron, he wondered if agreeing to go with Evie was an error.

Tanya was her usual self while she worked. They chattered as they usually do. Joked. Mused on what a wonderful night they were all going to have.

"I don't know if I've ever seen you dance." Tanya teased. "Are you going to need help?"

"Maybe?" he admitted and she laughed again, eyes twinkling in the mirror.

"Hey, Ichabod?"

"Hmm?"

"Thank you."

The soft open look on her face made his heart warm. "You're welcome Tanya."

"You'll save us a dance, right?" she asked as he finished her up, holding up a hand mirror so she could see. "Right Crane?"

"Course I will. Come on, you've got to get ready."

"You ready to go Tanya?" That was Caroline, home early from college, she'd offered to drive Tanya back home so she could finish getting dressed before Nathaniel would pick her up.

"Yeah Caroline. Thanks again Ichabod! See you later okay?"

He smiled, with a bob of his head. Tanya hesitated at the door "See you."

Caroline regarded him.

"What Caroline."

"Why aren't you going with them again?" she queried.

"…..Evie Spencer, asked me. Everyone at school knows her….we've been talking a bit lately, in class, and stuff, you know….."

His sister didn't say anything, just looked him over again before jingling her keys. "I'll be back in a jiffy. Take pictures of my _baby brother_ off to prom," she cooed, ruffling his hair.

* * *

 

The evening started out lovely.

Evie wore a purple sparkling dress and her hair half up and half down. Secretly Crane thought he could have done a better job, but she'd been so elated with her do, glittering with sparkly hair spray, stiff with product, he kept this thoughts to himself. There were murmurs entering the room. Fevered whispers and chuckles somewhere in the fuchsia tinged darkness which he suspected belonged to the jocks and other guys at school who were never short on unkind things to say. It didn't matter though, because the music was in swing and Tanya and Nathaniel found him with beaming faces, had hugged him enthusiastically, telling him how sharp he looked. Nathaniel had said 'Debonair' and then, remembering that his purple tie was meant to match his date, had appraised Evie, plastering on a smile and saying their best hellos. Tanya remarking"I like your dress Evie."

"…..Yours….too, Tanya, I could never pull off something so simple."

Tanya's smile turned brittle at the edges.

For the most part it was fun. Evie quickly flounced off to talk with her girlfriends, dragging him over at one point for introductions, as if there was a need when he'd had them all in his chair at one point or another. Though they never acknowledged him at school.

He danced with Evie who thought his movements were so funny, she laughed and clapped her hands because he was so "Helpless" "Oh you're hopeless, look at you." she giggled, dancing circles around him before grabbing his arms and attempting to guide him. When a song with heavy bass came on she reeled him in close, guiding his hands. "Like this, Ichabod, like----" He flummoxed and abruptly pulled away, needing air, and was deeply relieved when Tanya rescued him, swaying with him against the rhythm of the music while Nathaniel got punch.

"Are you having fun?"

"Yeah," he'd answered, surprised with himself. He didn't expect to like Evie's company, really, but dancing was fun, and it was nice to know he could exist, a little, outside of the pair he held dear.

"Hey hey hey," Nathaniel came up behind them one hand on Crane's shoulder, the other with a punch held aloft in his hand and they were all swaying together, grinning at one another, happy. They traded partners a few times. Him with Tanya, then Nathaniel, but when he watched the pair of them together, that sinking feeling of a 'shift' reared it's head. Yet they looked so happy. For that, for that moment being on the outside he still felt happy then, too.

* * *

 

Another slow song came on and Crane was hot, he excused himself from his friends and went out into the lobby, searching for a water fountain and heard the door open behind him just shortly after.

"There you are."

"Oh, hi Evie"

"Wasn't nice of you, to leave me alone in there," she took a small wavering step in his direction. He wondered if it was the heels or if she'd had too much to drink.

"Sorry Evie, I was just----"

She flapped a hand dismissively in his face. "I know, I know where you were," her laugh was throaty and her teeter tottering steps toppled her into his arms. She giggled, clutching him as she righted herself. "Probably shouldn't have worn these fucking heels, huh" she snorted. "But I just wanted to make sure I was on level with you, you're so tall, I could climb you like a tree"

He spluttered. "What?"

"You know, I know what they say about you, you know?" a fingers lazily tiptoeing along his arm, up to his shoulder."they snicker that you've got sugar in your tank,"

Puzzled, "Where? what?"

Then a hand, combing through his hair, curling around his ears, a caress of his neck that sent an unwelcome shiver down his spine. The corridors, empty, quiet.

Cornered, trapped.

"I don't understand----"

"I can make you understand, why don't you let me"

Lips, mashing against his. His nose burned from where it collided roughly with hers. Bodies pulled roughly together, soft curves forced into his hand, a wandering palm, searching, reaching cupping.

Struggle.

Panic.

He didn't want this.

He felt sick.

Nauseas.

Disgusted.

Churning in his stomach, building, burbling.

Exploding.

A shriek. "Oh my God! What's wrong with you!"

Horror, and evidence of the projectile voiding of his stomach, dribbling down his chin.

"You, you jackass! Do you know how much this dress cost?you're such a creep!Strange Ass Crane, they were right about you."

He'd say he's sorry only he really wasn't.

"You….you forced yourself on me!" he fired back, anger replaced the confusion he'd felt earlier at the absence of feeling. He had been wondering if there was something wrong with him, honestly. Perhaps he even knew that he should respond and feel a certain way when the 'hottest' girl in school took an abrupt, sudden, interest in him. He'd been hearing all of the whispers.

Always tagging along with those two.

Doesn't he have his own life?

What's his deal anyway.

Maybe you're just not his type,

What do you mean

Maybe Ronald is more his kind.

shut the up Chad I don't want Crane anywhere near me man.

You sure Ronnie? He'd play in your hair and then suck your----

Eat _shit_ Chad

If he was being honest, Crane was trying to see if maybe there was something he'd been missing. That maybe he should be finding someone outside of Nathaniel and Tanya to share his time; to feel for. But if it had anything to do with parts and aesthetics, clearly, Crane had a malfunction. No matter how beautiful Evie Spencer was, he didn't want her. 

In fact, he'd never felt he wanted anyone, not precisely in  _that way._ Which was another confounding confusing battle he fought inwardly, alone. 

"You have a hot girl in your hands and you throw up, " the slap stung less than the dirty shame he felt, pinching away his sullied shirt and Evie stomping and crying that he'd ruined dress and she was going to send him the dry cleaning bill, wiping sloppily at her chin, hair falling in her face. "You're a creep! You rathersit and watch scrawny Nathaniel bone Tanya, is that it? Sticking his---"

Crane saw red. "Evie!"his tone sharp, defensive.

She'd snarled at him. "It's true, isn't," her widely acknowledged beautiful face twisting into something hateful and ugly. "You're into them, the two of them---I saw you in there, is that it, you like kinky shit? So do you ever get a turn or you just like to watch-----"

"Shut up Evie or I swear----"

"You'll what, you'll beat me? Is that it sicko? Is that the only kinda hitting you like to do? What's wrong your tinker doesn't work? Can't get it up so you like to watch? Like to rough house the guys instead? Does that do it for you?"

"Evie, Evie!"

Female peers, perhaps hearing her escalating tirade poke their heads out. They take in the disarray of Evie and Crane, remembering Crane's gently nature and that he'll be doing their hair come Saturday morning;drag her away, reprimanding her, but not before the jocks arrive, joking, jeering at Evie who promptly flips them off on her way to the washroom.

"Evie's so dirty not even Crane wanted her."

"Fuck you Chad."

"You wish I'd let you!" he crowed after her before him and his gang rounded on Crane. Awkward mess. "And what the hell is wrong with you Craney, Evie's a class A babe."

"You _just,_ called her dirty,"

"Did I ask you dumbass? So Crane, what's your deal, huh? You want Ronnie?"

Ronald slugged him before Chad could finish laughing at his own taunt, puffing his chest. "I told you to shut up Chad, I TOLD You" and then had noticed Crane gaping at him for punching his supposed friend. "DON'T LOOK AT ME WEIRDO. DON'T TOUCH ME"

"I'm not, no, never----" Crane's mouth turned down, revolted by the notion. "Not with a ten foot pole," He'd rasped.

Narrowed eyes in a too red face.

He should have known, better. Everyone did, by then,than to get into it with Crane. Flying some taunts, unkind words behind his back was fine, but you didn't go around willfully getting into a confrontation with him. But Ronald's face was clouded with anger.

"What? You wouldn't what?"

"I wouldn't touch you with a ten foot pole" Crane straightened his spine, restlessly tugging at his tie."Not if you paid me. "

Chad, groaning on the floor, clutching his face, chuckled through his pain. "You're too gross even for him."

"Shut UP Chad"

Still shaken up from Evie's assault and her crude words ringing in his ear Crane turned around to leave the scene, feeling queasy when a hand landed on his shoulder, spinning him around.

"Where you going, Icky."

_*"What's this, Icky's got a spine?"_

"Don't call me 'Icky' Ronald."

"Yeah? YEAH? Or what SICK ICKY CRANE. WHAT----"

What followed was a missing spot in his memory, a black out.He came to, on top of Ronald, his fists flying, something went crunch and Ronald's nose was bleeding, screaming hysterically and the crowd was gathering and someone was calling his name.

"Crane! Crane it's not worth it! Come on!"

"Ichabod?"

Nathaniel. Tanya. Approaching from the opposite end of the hall----he'd fleetingly wondered when had they left the dance floor, where had they gone---- their fingers were twined, eyes wide in shock, their faces screwed up in fury and hurt.

"You're into them, the two of them---you _freak_ "

"You rather sit and watch----"

He was scrabbling off of Ronald and trembling when his friends reached him, and it took all of his strength not to pull away from them when they went to touch him. His face was wet and there were tears and he knew everyone was looking at the three of them, thinking their nasty mean spirited thoughts about them, compounded with what they had just put him through, he was shaking and-----Nathaniel gripped his hand, locking their fingers together tight."We've got you, come on Crane."

"There they go!" Evie shouted as she emerged from the bathroom somehow looking worse. "Bunch of sickos."

Tanya had whirled on her so fast, fist balled, a foreign look of anger on her face looking for all intents and purposes prepared to fight but Nathaniel grabbed for her too with his other hand, reigning her in. "She's not worth it either babe."

They walked away from the chaos of it all,took Crane to get cleaned up in the mens where Nathaniel took care trying to wipe out his friends shirt, where Crane struggled to look him in the eye. Then pilled into Nathaniel's car and stopped at a park on the way home. Walked out into the night air stretching limbs, descending on a bench.

Taking a second to breathe. Get some of the adrenaline and anxious energy out of their system. For a moment they tried asking him, gently prodding him to tell them what had happened. What caused the fight. Why was Tanya saying, who swung first, "Are you hurt Ichabod?" But he couldn't bare it. Couldn't bring himself to repeat the vile, intrusive, inappropriate things they'd said. He felt so dirty. He avoided Nathaniel's gaze, dreading seeing the piteous look of 'I told you so' that would lurk there. He'd been distrustful of Evie from the start and if only Crane hadn't been so much in his own head, so muddled, he would have recognized it as care and concern. He'd have been able to avoid tonight.

When it was clear they wouldn't get answers Nathaniel simply leaned his head on Crane's shoulder in silence.

Tanya had touched his cheek, turning his head towards her, leaning her forehead against his. "When you're ready to talk, we'll be here. Okay?"

He answered her in tears. Her cheeks were wet too, distraught as she wrapped her arms around him, and Nathaniel stretched his arms around from behind.

They held him, held each other,while he came undone and Crane felt both so safe and scared all at once.

* * *

 

Monday morning saw George and Amelia Crane in the principles office. George shaking his head with a bemused quirk of his mouth as he looked over his son.

"Well this brings back memories doesn't it."

"George" Amelia admonished.

"You had every right to give him what for, son."

"George."

"I mean it. If Evie was a boy I'd have told him he should have socked her one too, I hope her parents teach her to keep her bloody hands to herself."

"Mr and Mrs. Crane? I'll see you now.You too, Ichabod."

* * *

 

They were told that Ronalds father had gotten up the gall to claim he wanted to press charges but even Chad had witnessed on Crane's behalf that it was Ronald who'd started the confrontation, putting hands on Ichabod first. Along with numerous other bystanders. It was perhaps the first time Crane had felt as though more than just two people at the school stood beside him. It wouldn't matter at this point, though, anyway.

It was the end of the year, and everyone was going off in search of their perspective careers and staring their own lives. Two weeks later was the afternoon Nathaniel had confided he planned to propose.

Tanya said yes, and she was elated.

Though there was a strange, bitterness  in his mouth he couldn't help but be overcome to a degree by their happiness, the nervous, excited energy that seemed to be racing through town at the announcement of a wedding. This summer. Whole towns invited Nathaniel had crowed, beaming. Want everyone there to see me marry the girl I love.

 ** _Love_**.

"I want you there, Crane. Be my best man?"

"Ichabod, it would mean the world to me, if you'd do my hair?"

He cared about the pair of them, so deeply. He knew in his heart there was nothing malicious in their coupling, they'd never meant to exclude or hurt him, in fact it seemed that somehow they were also spending more time with him while they planned, asking his opinion on colours and cake flavours. In so many ways leading up to the big day they still felt like a unit.

But there  was more and more of them holding hands, and sharing stolen kisses. The reality becoming sharper, more crisp and cruel when they started talking about where they would live, together, began cobbling together a little makeshift furniture list to set up their happy home.

For the Newlyweds.

For the Happy Couple.

For Two.

The safety, the comfort, of everything he knew being altered, forever changed and leaving him behind crystallized at once then splintered in spectacular fashion.

A thousand glittering sharp pretty piercing fragments.

They were all plenty cut up before the big day.

* * *

 

2015

"Abbie! Abbie over here!"

She turned and twirled briefly for pictures as she journeyed into the party venue, Cynthia and Crane marching briskly, protectively alongside.

Within the music is loud and pulsing and tons of celebrating joyous faces, congratulating, embracing, toasting one another. They greet her with this same fervour and Abbie's early fatigue and trepidation for a moment dissipates.

This is a party.

So far, the greatest night of her life.

She's not about to let the muddled, brief collision with Crane cloud her night. She won't allow it. It's been a stressful time. She's dealing with enough without addling her brain trying to puzzle him out. Tonight is for joy. 

Tonight is for dancing.

Cynthia grabs for her hand. "Dance with me before I do something stupid in here with this room full of celebrities." she glances around and grabs for Crane who looks a little overwhelmed if not shell shocked. "You too, I'm not letting you play mysterious wallflower tonight."

"Cyntha," Abbie scolds. "If the man doesn't wanna dance don't make him."

Crane holds her gaze for a moment before looking away.

It's too loud for him to tell her it's not that he doesn't want to dance.

It's just good partners are hard to find.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more flashbacks next chap, most likely.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh, the usual. 
> 
> past and flashback of 2015. 
> 
> the usual.

2015

This isn't that, it isn't then, he keeps telling himself. How stupid that now his mind throws him back there. Fancy dresses, coiffed hair. It should be a delight of sorts. He's kept present though, by Cynthia's soft exclamations in his ear. "Look! Isn't that-----" some name she whispers excitedly but he feels as though he's underwater.

He keeps seeing eyes rove over him from corners, assessing, trying to place him. Figuring out if he belongs. Who is he. Does he matter. Should he matter.

It's unsettling. Crane hasn't heard curious muttering over him, in quite some time. It's less than what he grew up with, and that's a relief; at the salon, where they guess and wonder they're voices carry and they're a little deliberate in attempts to flirt with him and there he bares it, makes a game of it even, it's easy, because at Whim he is in command of the setting so it's his playground, his stage a place he can't be threatened. But here. The feeling of other, among all the glitz, glam, joy, he feels like animposter.

His manufactured charm, he thinks, won't carry him far here. They stay close to Abbie, hover on the outskirts of the conversations she briefly engages in. Just barely managing to not draw enough attention to warrant introductions but some one slips through, extending a hand. He knows her, she was in Abbie's category. There's something a little predatory about her gaze, piercing.

"Pandora," she purrs.

He inclines his head, shaking back. She grins, toothy, sharp looking thing. "Enjoying yourself?" she continues, without breaking stride grasps a glass off a tray floating past, handing it off to him, she snags another server heading the opposite direction to grab herself an hors d'oeuvre, stuffing it elegantly in her mouth and finishing in one swallow. Crane gulps and the glass gives a little tremble as he lifts it to his lips. She arches a brow, watching him.

He wonders how Cynthia managed to get separated from him but he can glimpse her over a mans shoulder, she's laughing but her eyes dart, looking for him. "My, friend, is looking for me," he explains. "It was nice to meet you, Pandora,"

A hand flies out to rest on his chest. "I didn't catch your name."

"Ichabod Crane. He's with me."

Pandora's smile curls wider and her eyes glimmer. She loses interest in him entirely and turns instead to Abbie, clasping her hands and pulling her in for an embrace. "I figured I'd be able to reel you in if I snagged someone in your entourage," she grins.

"Oh was it me you were looking for?"

"Of course, _congratulations,_ I wanted to talk to you about an idea that was floated past me, but you've been impossible to get a hold of, did you know that?"

Abbie's mouth quirks up on the side. "My agent is a bit of a bull dog."

"I do hope you mean he bites."

Abbie's eyes widen in shock before she throws her head back and laughs. Pandora joins in, pleased. It's not often that her wicked humour strikes a chord, it's a delight to find that her joke resonates. "You're bad," Abbie snickers, accepting the next cocktail that goes sailing past and Pandora links arms with her.

"Mind if we chat? I won't keep you long from your beau, I swear."

Crane's throat closes knowing he should protest, perhaps even giving Abbie the chance to do so but when she doesn't his face flushes.

"Do you mind, Crane?" she says it coolly, but he can tell Abbie has been regarding him differently since his inappropriate attack up in the room, and rightfully so. She watches him now like a deer that might spook. A glass that might break.

"I'll be fine." he nods, raising the glass and Abbie and Pandora melt away into a corner just as Cynthia finally works her way back to his side. "Who was that?" he queries.

"I don't know, I think he's somebody's husband. Where's Abbie?"

Crane nods to the corner where the two women take a seat in a booth, and the same dark man who had been distracting Cynthia prior drifts over to join them, kissing Pandora's cheek, extending a hand to Abbie.

"I think we got worked over." Cynthia chuckles. "And here I thought we were breaking into A-list circles"

Crane relaxes enough to finish his beverage and offer a smirk. "You're not dreaming of leaving me are you, Cynthia?" he prods, "Going Hollywood?"

"And If I were," she teases, eyes scanning, looking for one of the servers with food. Crane nudges her to turn around where two of them cross paths going in separate directions. "Now I don't know which one I want……" she pouts.

"Go after your hearts desire," he murmurs, giving her a light bump to where the one has stopped with something unmistakably wrapped in bacon.

She shoots him a smile. "Don't wander off."

His lips twitch. "I'll be here."

Isn't he always.

* * *

 

Past.

"I'm going to the change room……Crane. Crane."

So _many,_ dresses.

Lace. Satin. Tulle. 

A line. Mermaid. Ball gown.

Sweet heart. Boat Neck. Plunging V.

Cap sleeves. Sleeveless. Straps.

Crinoline. Bustier.

Rhinestones. Appliques.

Tiaras. Gauze. Gossamer.

White, white, white, blush, white, beige, white.

He turned around to behold Tanya shyly following after an attendant waltzing off with an arm full of dresses.

"Are you gonna be okay or you gonna wander off and get lost in princess dresses?"

He wrung his hands before wringing out a small smile for her. An assurance."I'll be here."

For how long prickled at the back of his mind. For how long will they need you when they'll have each other. You'll be an aside, an after thought. For how long will you just stand here, Ichabod, hoping they would carry you forward with them, instead of sojourning on their own.

"Oh dear God." he huffed, suddenly overcome, running a hand over his face. Tanya's mother was waiting in thesalon on a chaise with a pedestal and mirror. She liked Ichabod, and he saw her like a second mother. He couldn't go back there as he was,She'd ask him why he seemed so distressed if he ventured back. He spun around, meandering through one aisle then another. Pretty headless Mannequins stood around each corner like a sentinel. A guard of some sort, marking the passage from one life into another. A barrier he couldn't cross.

It had never crossed Ichabod's mind that he would want to make this journey, actually,  but the prospect of his friends making it was beginning to make him panic. He felt like he couldn't breathe. Like they'd fluffed and feathered a haven to keep him in and now were leaving the nest and he'd gotten comfortable. He'd hadn't figured out his wings and he was being flung out to break his neck.  Their bond was changing.

Since Prom, since the incident with Evie, and sure, myriad little voices echoing the whispers he'd been taking more time to examine his feelings and how they ran. Which was no easy clear stream but a wild rapid he couldn't very well navigate on his own.

All he knew was he imagined them all as a unit. That he could have, _they_ could have all been happy together, and Tanya and Nathaniel could still develop their relationship how they saw fit, he didn't mind that so much……only it felt like a decision had been made for the three of them by two. They were racing ahead of him before he could get a handle on what he was feeling, and he didn't have enough time to find the right words and still it sounded so bizarre even to him, who'd ever heard of what he was thinking? Three? Three as what? What would they be.

He wished he could just make up his mind to be happy but the happier he was for them the deeper the ache got and-----now he had seen that particular mannequin twice.

Oh no.

"Oh hell." He grumbled, scrubbing at his burning eyes. Not now. Don't do this now, Ichabod come on. Eyes welling up, feeling warm, and now he'd gone and gotten himself lost.

"I thought you said you wouldn't wander off," Tanya'svoice sounded behind him, startling him. He jolted and then turned toward her. Relieved to be found and then all at once shattered. She was wearing a dress.

By the bright eyes and hopeful expression on her face. _The_ dress.

Dainty long satin sleeves, trimmed in lace. The sweet heart neckline and the intricate, fussy beading. Flared out at waist and trailing skirt. Glimmering in white. Like an Angel.

A light at the end of a Tunnel……the end of an era.

This is happening.

Oh God. **_God._**

"Hey." she reached out to him, a hand to his shoulder but he couldn't look at her. "Is it that bad?" she'd asked, voice quavering. On her part, Tanya had been almost certain this dress was the one. "Crane?"

"I can't do this."

Her hand stilled, then pulled away. Something in his tone gave him away. In his shoulders shaking and avoiding her gaze. "Ichabod?"

"I can't do it Tanya I… _.look at you._ "

Tanya looked stricken. She wasn't sure if she was supposed to be elated or embarrassed, the way he was looking at her. Only she felt like she was on trial. "I wasn't sure about the cut on the hanger but….."

"It's not the **_fucking_ **dress." he snapped, voice hoarse, eyes still red. Tanya blinked. That was knew. It hurt because it was a friend she knew so well, seemed almost old and worn in their friendship and familiarity that 'new' felt like an attack.

It clarified in her mind at that moment, something was wrong. Something was, had, been going wrong. And it was coming to a head, here, now.

"……Crane?"

"You're…..the two of you….you're…..I……"

"What, Ichabod, what, what is it….."

"Why do you need to do, this, all of this, why, why couldn't it be, couldn't we…..we, when, _damn_ it. Let's start with when, because, because I was there with you all along and….."

"Ichabod,you're not making sense right now."

"What was wrong with us" he stressed. "You, Nathaniel, and I. What was wrong with that?"

She didn't understand the question. Couldn't process the line of inquiry. "What-----nothing, waswrong with us----"

"Then,when did you guys decide to choose each other and _leave_ me" he pleaded. Inwardly he cursed himself. He wasn't going to do this, he wasn't supposed to do this but here it is, it's happening, and he can see her face morphing from kind and concerned to confused and then hurt.

"Ichabod, we'll always----"

"No we won't. Because, you'll be lying in bed together every night. Having a family. Children, and where will I be. Someone you call once in a blue moon?----maybe to watch your kids----"

"But….Ichabod," she started tentatively. "But, where else would you be?"

Perhaps foolishly, yes, Tanya had been imagining a life where her and Nathaniel raise children together, but Crane would be there, part of their lives, always. Godfather to her kids. It had seemed a _nice_ thought, to her.

"With you!" he shouted at last. "I'm supposed to be with you two. You're the only people who understand me and we're supposed to be….."

"But what, Ichabod," and Tanya was crying but wouldn't wipe her cheek with a satin sleeve. "What could we be, all three of us? _how_ was that supposed----what do you _call_ that?"

"I don't know but you should have asked! You both should have thought of me----"

Tanya stomped her foot. "Stop it. Stop it! Are you kidding me? Are you doing this to me now, Ichabod? Dear God Why? Why would you do this to me? I'm trying on _**fucking** wedding dresses_" she hissed---because if he was going to rudely surprise her she'd surprise him right back---her face was tear streaked as she heaved a breath,"And, and, and you choose now to question my future?"

"Our, future."

"Sorry, ours? How the hell was Nate to know? Did you tell him? He asked you what I thought-----"

"And what was I supposed to say? I hardly even knew you two were…..were……." he gestured vaguely, twiddling, fretful fingers.

"But we were, and are, and we were supposed to think, what, to ask your permission, Ichabod? Is……is that what we should have done?"

"No because that would have had to mean you gave a damn about how this would effect me and it's clear to me you didn't!"

"Ichabod!"

"If you, either of you cared you'd…..you'd stop and realize that….somehow, we belong together, we're supposed to all….stay together….we're a good team, the three of us. And….and now I'm losing you….. to each other."

"You're not being fair!"

 _"I'm_ not being fair?"

"No! No you're not playing fair----"

"This isn't a _game_ to me Tanya----"

"If this is a game we're all losing fantastically." she squeezed her eyes shut tight before trying again.

"I don't get it Ichabod" the tears were coming in earnest and she was losing the battle to keep her voice down, though Crane had honestly stopped trying. "I don't _get it,_ how do you mean the three of us. What were we meant to do? I don't, I don't get it!Explain it to me! Make me understand because……are you jealous?"

His head snapped up as he looked at her, stung. " _Tanya_ "

" I……I don't know what you're asking me."

"Was it always in your head, that you'd marry Nathaniel?"

"Was it in your head that I'd marry you?"

"You don't get it." his lips twisted and he choked "You're not _listening_ to me you don't get it."

"I'm trying but you picked a hell of a time for a heart to heart, when did this even start?"

"Right then."

"What?"

"At the start. Right then. That's where it began and…..I can't it's killing me, I….."

"…..Is everything alright back here?" the sales clerk approached cautiously with a tight smile on her face, passing assessing gazes. He knew what thismust have looked like. Like he was trying to talk the bride to be out of getting married. Which, maybe he was, maybe he wasn't. He didn't know anymore. He was supposed to keep his damned mouth shut and he'd failed at that. 

More than anything he was just trying to talk Tanya into 'seeing' what he saw. But he'd treaded too far and reasoning had gone flying out the door.

"I…..I've got some place to be." he said, blustering away.

"Ichabod!"

* * *

 

2015

"Here." Cynthia shoves a morsel under his nose. He smiles at her gratefully. Took in the back drop of celebrities and Cynthia beaming at him and he unwontedly started picturing her here. Cynthia has an easy manner. Friendly, approachable. She could stand to branch out. She already has a fantastic contact in Abbie.

"You know, if you did," he sweeps his hand around in a small encompassing circle. "Decide to, venture out a little, I, I wouldn't keep you."

Cynthia smiles back and bumps his shoulder. "I'm not going anywhere."

"What I mean, Cynthia, is……if, there's something greater out there for you, don't put it off on my account."

She frowns at him, pressing the back of her hand to his forehead. "You're in a mood."

He barks a laugh. "Maybe I am. It's…..it's just very overwhelming, isn't it, all of this, so much of this. It's easy to get swept up, It's the kind of world that would always, keep you occupied, tugging you elsewhere."

A new project.

A new set.

New scene partners.

Stories.

Lives.

New.

Constantly unfurling.

Racing along without him.

Subconsciously he turns his head in the direction of Abbie who is at last rising from the booth, sharing cheek kisses with Pandora and a brief hug with who he presumes is her husband and he sighs.

With so much new and exciting, in the beyond of her career, even in life, did he honestly hope she could stand to keep looking back over her shoulder for him?

Say there was more to them. Say she could forgive his earlier trespass, if…..you could be, together, would she take you with her. Into the new planes of her life. Would she cross those with you?

Would you be able to keep up?

Abbie sashays back towards them, a faint flush on her cheeks.

"I distinctly remember you begging us to come with you so you wouldn't have to mingle." Cynthia cajoles. Abbie shrugs a shoulder.

"She wanted to talk about a script they'd apparently sent in. I told Corbin, my Agent not to shove anything else under my nose until this was all over," She has the grace to look a little sheepish. "But, since Pandora and her husband, they're launching their own production company----cornered me," she sighs. "Well I guess I owe them having a proper look."

Crane gazes down into his glass.

Abbie glances over at him. "And…..if I decide to take it on. I'll need someone on set." she pauses, waiting to see if he'll lift his head. He does. If only because he wonders why she stopped talking.

"I'll need someone on set. It's a historical project. Haven't been abroad in a bit. So…..which of you volunteers?"

Cynthia touches Abbie's shoulder. "You know I'd love nothing more, but I've got to keep the salon running."

Crane's eye's snap to her, about to sound an alarm.

"You'll be in good hands with Crane, but you already knew that, right?"

Abbie's expression is very carefully pleasant. An expertly executed front. She now knows a little something about Crane's hands and she's not entirely sure she'd sum them up as simply 'good' but, yes, from turning her inside out and making her feel as if she could melt in his chair and his simultaneously gentle and feverish touch they're certainly, efficient, instruments of destruction. "I sure do." she lets her gaze linger on the glass stem gripped a little too tightly in his fingers. She steels herself and gently plucks it from him, draining the last drops.

Cynthia snickers behind her hand at Abbie's brazeness before she goes to hunt down another server for more food.

"……Care to dance, Crane?"

"Abbie, I'm so, sorry about earlier, please, forgive me-----"

She holds his gaze but doesn't reply, only holds out her hand, and turns her head away. "Do you wanna dance or….."

He swallows the lump in her throat at takes her dainty fingers in his own.

"It's……been a while since….."

"You can just follow me. If you don't mind."

She guides him very carefully, never too close, never too far away. He's aware of her eyes on him at all times and it seems futile to avoid her so he looks back. He gets the nerve to give her a little spin and she sputters in surprise, a brief smile flashing across her face before she remembers herself.

"Do you forgive me? Abbie I mean it, I never should have----"

"I heard you."

They dance. 


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The usual the usual.

Past

A week since he stranded Tanya at the dress shop.

Two more until the happy day.

He hadn't been answered the door when it rang the next day. Nathaniel hollered for him for nearly half an hour. Crane was so ashamed and angry with himself. He couldn't believe he did that, and he was beyond thinking he could make amends.

What kind of friend was he, to make a quagmire of their wedding preparations. What is wrong with you, he berated himself, constantly.

He was at the grocery, picking up a few things for dinner, his mother had stumbled upon a recipe she was dying to try. He meandered down an aisle and turned abruptly into a face he hadn't expected to see and certainly didn't want to.

"Oh!"

He was stone faced.

"Ichabod."

He turned to back down the aisle, steering the cart. "Evie."

She darted around in front of him and his nostrils flared. He looked up and down the aisle to see if there was anyone near by and Evie grimaced. She held her hands up before her.

"Look…..What I did to you at prom…..I was wrong."

He made to turn again but she gripped the cart and he grunted. " ** _Let go, Evie."_**

"Ichabod I'm sorry, I'm disgusted with myself for what I did to you, I had no right I….."

She let go and he tugged it out of her grasp.

"I'm pregnant." she said suddenly.

He raised an indignant brow.

"I didn't know if it was Ronnie's or Chads…..and you were so, so nice, I……"

" _ **Evelyn.**_ "

"I'm sorry. I'm deeply, truly sorry. I……I violated you, and……. If you'd caught me a blow I wouldn't have blamed you. I was wrong, and I'm sorry Ichabod."

"I've heard you, Evie. But that's all I can say right now."

She sidestepped and he began to stroll away, the cart wheels rattling along on the tile.

"……Heard about you getting in at that fancy school…..congrats on it, really. And…..don't look back on any of us here. We didn't deserve you."

"Good _bye_ Evie." he called at last, turning the corner out of sight.

"G'bye, Ichabod."

* * *

 

Amelia Crane cocked her head thoughtfully to the side, studyingher sons face as he dutifully chopped and peeled.

"I can feel you staring, mother."

She harrumphed and gave an impish smile before he lifted his eyes to look at her. She smiled at him, bright, wide thing in a face that seemed a little gaunt.

" _What,_ " he groaned.

"I'm just admiring how much you've grown, can'ta mother do that? I won't be around forever you know----"

"Mother-----"

"You know I won't." She cut in, though her voice wasn't unkind. "You're beautiful, you know that Ichabod? I got very lucky with you and your sister. That neither of you got my nose and neither of you got your father's ears."

Ichabod chortled in spite of himself. He had early memories of his mother tweaking his father's ears, when he was small, playfully gesturing at George as they sang 'Do your ears hang low'

"I'm going to tell dad you're picking on his ears again,"

A hand flew to Amelia's chest. "Betrayed, by my own son?"

He laughed, this time with teeth and his mother cooed. "Oh, there he is, my beautiful boy. Looks like the young man I raised. Not the brooding thing that's been stalking around here."

"Mother, please."

"Tell me what happened, Ichabod. You went out shopping last week and haven't been the same since."

He turned his eyes back toward his previous task, slicing steadiy before her hand reached across the table and stilled him. "Since before, then," Amelia stressed. She'd been keeping a keen eye on Ichabod, truthfully, since he came out the womb. More closely, when he went to school, narrower, as he aged, and now, laser, pin pointed, precision focus as he turned into a young man----Amelia had known something was wrong by the way he'd closed the door. Carefully too quiet. "What's bothering you, talk to mom."

"M-----"

"Mmmmm my foot. I'm your mother. Confide in me now while you have the chance." her eyes softened. "What went wrong at the shop?"

Tears blurred his eyes and he dropped vegetable and knife on the table, clutching his head in his hands "Everything. I….I starteda fight with Tanya and….."

All at once, her little boy. Crane towered over her and even a little bit over George but she could never forget how sensitive he was. How sweet. She opened her arms and he went to them, leaning on her as she combed her fingers through his beautiful hair.

He got the hair from her. Lustrous, shining, soft.

Amelia didn't have much of it anymore, those days. She'd need to just clean it all off but she hadn't gotten the nerve to ask Crane to do it yet. She knew he would probably take it all the hardest.

* * *

 

"You know, sweetheart……I know it's hard, when things change. Life is unpredictable, and there are so so many factors to it. People, life events, variables beyond our control……Ichabod I know how rough you've had it at school. What happened at Prom, and through it all, they've been the only people close to you beside us. I know it's scary. I know it hurts if…..if perhaps people don't feel the same way you do."

"I'm not even sure what I feel I just…..am I _weird_? Am I _wrong_? I….."

Amelia pursed her lips and dabbed at an eye with her knuckle. "You know darling I can't say. I can't say I've ever heard of what you're saying, but I won't say you're wrong. Maybe…..maybe a little unique, and ahead of your time."

"I don't want to feel this way, to be this person, she was crying, I…..I made Tanya _cry_ and it's been haunting me."

"You know, she wouldn't have cried, if she didn't care."

He leaned off his mother, regarding her as if she'd sprung an extra head. She gave a weak laugh.

"Don't you know it's the ones you care about the most that can hurt you?"

If she'd meant to comfort him, it had the opposite effect and Crane looked absolutely stricken.

"Oh dear, stop, stop, don't _spiral_ Ichabod."

"I hurt, her. I hurt them _both"_

She gently rubbed his shoulder. "It is a strange time of year. A lot of changes ahead for all of us. Me, seeing my boy off to school, going so far away from me, My God could you have conspired to go farther? I thought Caroline had had me beat but there you are-----I'm _glad_ Ichabod," she cut off to touch his face. "I'm glad and I'm so proud of you. This is an exciting time, in your lives, and I want you to see it for what it is,"

Not what it's not.

"It's hard. To adjust." he sighed. "To let go."

"To lose, something. Someone." she looked meaningfully into his eyes at which he blinked hard and looked away. She swallowed around the lump forming in her throat. They were hopeful in this household of course they were but she wouldn't pretend that she hadn't been contemplating if things went south. "We can lose faith, hope, people, love……but they'll come back to us if we let it."

He groaned. "What are you _saying_."

"I'm saying, Ichabod; beautifier of heads, gentlest of giants----" he audibly snorted" ------No one will love you, the way your father and I love you. They can't. They can't know what it is to pour all their love into a tender young man and want nothing more than to protect and nurture him. They will never know the ache of two loving parents, watching their child struggle and suffer among peers. They could never want so much of the world and universe for you, as we do. As I do." His eyes were burning as she gripped his chin. Tilting his head back to look into her own eyes, twinkling with tears.

"Mother---

"But Someone, someone _will_ **_love you._** They'll love you in the ways their hearts know how. They'll love you to the capacities that they're able. It may hurt, when it isn't to the lengths you want or need. But it is not because you are not enough. It's that all loves are different. Unique. Strong, in their way. Allow love and it will find you----and even if you are pig headed enough to fight it---and if you are, you get _that_ from your father----if you are too stubborn to see it, in spite of yourself, someone will still love you, with all they have. Understand, that what people have to give, will vary. But it doesn't make the value of what they would offer you, what they could, and know how to offer you, any less. Do you understand me? I need you to understand that." she was holding his face in both of her hands then, and she wouldn't let him turn away when he began to cry. "Do you hear me Ichabod?"

Face scrunched and heart crumbling he nodded. "Yes mama" He hadn't called her that since he was a child. "Yes. " She kissed his forehead several times and held him.

"And you do the same. You love, the best that you know how. Alright?"

* * *

 

T'was the night before Nathaniel Parker and Tanya Jenkins nuptials, and the house quiet. Carefully even tempered. The rehearsal dinner would have been tonight. His parents had looked at him curiously when the hour approached, and Caroline had pointedly nodded toward the clock and then the door but Ichabod hadn't moved, mourning the friendship he'd sufficiently wrecked, concocting a few half baked ideas to right the wrong but the more he thought of it, it all, seemed futile. What he had done was awful. Unforgivable.

"You could just apologize." Caroline interrupted his thoughts. "As a start."

"Now? With their wedding tomorrow?"

"You're the one who decided to waste time around here moping"

"Mother's needed help with----"

Caroline's eye had twitched. She was more touchy than Ichabod on the subject. "I know, and she's appreciated it, but it stands you've been here, _moping._ "

"Is that enough though? to just say sorry?After what I said…..."

"It might not be enough. Probably not." She said matter of fact. "But that's on them to decide. You at least owe it to them to apologize. If they mean as much to you as you say."

* * *

 

2015

He stops after another turn and very steadily rests his hands on her arms. "Abbie."

"……Crane."

"I know you heard me, but I need you to know, to understand I really meant it. I violated your space. I touched you without permission. I was…..rude, to you. I know what it is for someone to…….to……." he trailed off and Abbie watched him, eyes darting over his face, seeking "I know what it is, for someone to make you feel, disgusting, like that and then say sorry like it's a magic spell but it's not…..I was out of line. And I don't know why you didn't object, but you ought to tell Cynthia I can't come with you for this next project."

"Why can't you tell her? Don't you want to come?"

"Of course I do……" he confesses. "And Cynthia wouldn't listen to me the way she does you."

"I don't get it, if you want to work with me, why pass it up----"

"Because I've hurt you. And to profit…..be rewarded for it, makes my stomach churn. I hurt you and I cannot forgive myself for it. I shouldn't have even asked if you forgive me, only I hope one day you could, and if not, then that's fine. But I really…..I really need that to be clear. I'm sorry I hurt you."

The lights flash briefly, purple, blue hued, across his face.

"…….Okay." She chews her lip, wondering at his vehemence to make this right. She appreciates it, of course, and perhaps to a degree, living the life she has known, she isn't granting the situation the gravity it deserves but it's the first time either way that Abbie has encountered someone so determinedly apologetic. The way he's holding her arms, and how he weighs his words, she'd dare say it sounds passionate. "Okay, Ichabod……we're okay. alright?"

His eyes continue to bore into hers, maybe wondering if she would lie to him just to make him stop.

And she would, to be certain, but that's not her reason right now. She was irritated with how he'd handled her, but there hadn't been anything about it unwelcome, if she's being honest. She wonders if she would dare clarify that to him now. No, she thinks, holding his gaze. Better not. One thing at a time.

"We're good." she says, with emphasis and he sighs before seemingly remembering himself and swiftly removing his hands. Her lips twitch.

"You're jumpy aren't you."

"I----yes. Yes, sometimes I am."

Abbie glances around taking in the atmosphere, time to get back on track without how this evening should really go."Can we finish? I like this song, actually."

"Oh……" he trails off as he reaches for her again and she waltzes in a bit closer than he was expecting. She feels him momentarily stiffen. "You were an ass, to be clear."

He splutters a shocked laugh and relaxes in her hold as her arms wind around his back.

"A really….really big ass." she continues. "Like the hugest ass,tallest ass I've ever met." and he keeps laughing and she chuckles again.

Cynthia finds them eventually, draping an arm around either of them and they've all drank and eaten enough by then to let someone flash camera lights in their face when they leave.

* * *

 

Past.

It was nearly ten but there he was, shuffling anxiously on the doorstep, with great trepidation reaching to ring the front door.

"Now who the hell could that----oh, oh! Ichabod! Come in," Mrs. Jenkins grabbed his arm and yanked him over the threshold without preamble, smacking his forehead on the not quite fully opened door. "Sorry hon. But, you're just who she needs to see."

He was still half stumbling into the family room, looking around a bit dazed. The house was surprisingly lightsome, given the hour, he could hear some distressed noises in one of the rooms upstairs and he looked toward it, curiosity peaked. "She's panicking." Mrs. Jenkins summarized. "She left the dinner and came home here and went into a full blown panic."

"Oh….I…..should I come back?"

"No you should go up there and talk to her, I think at this point she might bolt."

 **" _Bolt!_** " he exclaimed, clapping a hand over his mouth, shocked at his own outburst. " _Bolt!_ " he repeated again in a whisper and her mother nodded.

"Been fretting all week. The flowers. The caterers. It's just jitters but she's driving me batty I'll tell you and…..take off your shoes please hon" He kicked off his shoes haphazardly and following closely behind as she lead him upstairs before he paused.

"Wait….Mrs. Jenkins…..I….I don't think…I'm probably the last person Tanya wants to see right now…."

"She told me, you know. The falling out. I still don't understand because she scream, bawl, sobbed half of it, but maybe having her dearest friend to make amends will…..help, this somehow. At any rate I need to know whether or not to iron her father's shirt."

Standing outside of his friends bedroom door he took a deep breath and threw back his shoulders.

_"And you do the same. You love, the best that you know how. Alright?"_

"Mrs. Jenkins…..Iron his shirt. His tie, his underwear." Mrs. Jenkins gave a whoop of laughter and Crane gave a slight grin, feeling a little more confident. "There'll be a wedding…..I _mean_ I'm going to try my best….."

"And that'll be enough. go on." She rapped smartly on the door before pushing it open a crack and ushering him ahead. "Tanya, Tanya love you've got a visitor."

"If that's Nathaniel tell him it's off, I don't want to see anyone right now I------"

"…….Tanya?"

She lifted her head from the pillow she was crying into. "Ichabod?"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was defs not an absolution of Evie. 
> 
> Mainly in this chapter I wanted to show all the sides of apologies (how they are delivered,) and acceptance (if people choose to accept them)


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The usual! a flashback wedding. I had to write this scene because I envisioned it! lol. Also some other bits.

**_"Oscar winner Abbie Mills spotted leaving the Governors ball, celebrating with friends on her arm, stylists Ichabod Crane and Cynthia Irving of Whim Salon._ **

**_"Meet the duo who crafted first time Oscar winner Abbie Mills glamorous old hollywood look." And an impossible, splashing spread of the outside of their business. When---who?_ **

**_"The secret is out! Abbie Mills at last divulges her secret to gorgeous hair on and off screen."_ **

* * *

Cynthia gazes at the plethora of magazines. "I…..hadn't thought….."

Crane laughs nervously. "Does any one read these? really?" He dashes a copy of Us onto the counter and begins preparing for the day.Cynthia waves another magazine under his nose. His eyes cross she's holding it so close, her harrumphs at her before taking it out of her hands, glaring as she sashays away and holding it at arms length so he can read it properly.

**_"Abbie Mills, sharing a special, confidential moment on the floor with dear friend Ichabod Crane. The same man mentioned in her acceptance speech. Could it be that there's more to them than a professional bond?"_ **

He blanches. That's them, for certain, centre of the dance floor it seems like, their arms twined in a mindfully rhythmic shuffle, there are several shots. He wonders how they simply managed to ignore they were being photographed. There they are looking into each others eyes---that had to be him making his gratuitous apologies. Then her head leaning on his chest as they danced.

"Who," he gasps. "Who. who, Who wrote this? When….we."

"You might want to get the door," Cynthia smirks and Crane looks up then, paling at the crowd of new eager faces lined up outside, some pressed against the glass. "They can't be for here….can they" he glances back and forth between the multiple gossip rags "….we….this was only two days ago….."

"Look are you going to let them in?" she gives her scissors a few sharp clacks. "We've got do's, to do."

A deep breath, in through his nose, out through his mouth, gathering himself. Flipping his switch.He runs his hands through his hair and strolls to the door, flinging it open wide. " ** _Welcome,_** to Whim Salon."

* * *

 

Past

Tanya blinked at him several times in disbelief before hiccuping and trying again. "Ichabod? Is that…." her face crumpled, seemingly remembering at that very minute that the last they spoke hadn't been on good terms. "Oh God what do you want now----if you're here to talk me out of it don't worry I'm doing a great job on my own."

His brows rose in alarm as he cautiously crossed the room, sinking down onto the mattress beside her. "Tanya, Tanya, no, if anything…..I'm here to apologize."

"Yeah? for what"

"For….for that scene I made on your day. You were shopping for, what might be the most important dress in your life, and I made it all about me, and I'm….I'm so sorry. That's not the sort of thing friends do. That's not how friends who care as much about you as I do, should behave."

"No," she glanced at him distrustfully, shuffling around to face him more fully and hugging a pillow tight to her body. "No, you're right. You….you turned my whole day sideways. It's a wonder mom could make heads or tails of what I was saying to leave a deposit on the gown. And then Nathaniel called, to ask how it went"

His heart sank.

"And you can imagine how confused and hurt he was because he said, and I quote 'Crane's my best man I thought he'd be happy' And my heart _hurt,_ because two people I love were hurting, and they were hurting because some how finding love, the best feeling, was hurting all of us and do you see why my mother is fed up with me? I've been babbling like this since."

Furrowed brow and feeling decently low Crane reached tentatively towards the pillow in her arms and tugged on it. She hugged it tighter. He tugged again and she pulled until one of them growled before he could understand what was happening she'd beaned him in the head with it.

"Tanya!"

"What!"

"All I can say is, I was wrong, and whatever confusion I'm feeling, whatever I feel in my heart regarding this----you love Nathaniel, I know you do. And he worships you. I feel there is something----now is not the time to decide. You…..you've made your choice, and it's each other and I accept that…..I encourage it."

"How can I march bravely down the aisle to the man I love when the friend I love might walk out of my life? What choice is that?"

"So, what is it you think." He asked gently. "That…..if you break Nate's heart. You'll get to keep us both? Everything goes back to the same?"

Wiping sloppily at her face Tanya turned away, letting tears run carelessly down her cheeks. "Isn't that what you _wanted._ "

He got the nerve to reach for her hands again, engulfing them in his own and giving her a little tug so she'd look at him.

"Well? her lip trembled. "Isn't it?"

 _"No._ " He said, feeling it burble up from the depth of his soul. This sort of pain, distress, emotional disarray, is not what he wanted for his friends. "No, it isn't."

She laughed mirthlessly. "I don't get it what do you want Crane. Maybe this is the solution after all."

"No, Tanya, because…..what you guys have together, mystifies me. It came out of nowhere, it surprised me, but that's the…..the beauty, of it, I guess? It suddenly was there, and you both wanted it. Love. Marriage, tomorrow and the day after and the day after, forever. It scares me because it's beautiful. It scares me, because it's…..exclusive…."

"Crane….."

"Where you two go, the path you walk….I can't follow."

"You don't….we, don't know that…..I just….we, never considered that….."

Crane was shaking his head and holding a finger to her lips. "Tanya. Put aside, all of that. Is this really why you're thinking of standing up Nathaniel?"

"……..It's….it's so fast. I love him but…..I'll be leaving home….and…..it's a lot of..... "

"Change" Crane interjected, feeling his eyes mist up. "It's a lot of change. For both of you."

"All of us."

He silently chewed his lip.

"Crane?"

"Yeah."

"…..I guess I'm scared."

"I think I could promise Nathaniel is too. He was very happy when he showed me the ring but his hand was also trembling so much he nearly dropped the box."

Tanya snickered, caught off guard by the warm, endearing image that filled her mind of Nathaniel, sweet, dear, loyal man who the first time he kissed her had been so sure of himself it had filled her with a little bit of terror and exhilaration. People saw Nathaniel as a lithe, lanky, pale guy; an optimistic cancer survivor. The guy with patchy downy hair, that you could always see his scalp through, and the lingering scar at the base of neck, where they had extracted the tumour. Yet he lived with so much abandon and had boundless energy and she loved that, loved everything about him and…. _.oh._

She looked up and met Crane's kind blue eyes, peering into hers. He nodded tearfully at her, as if he knew at that exact moment, what conclusion she'd come to. 

_"I love him."_

Crane reached to touch her cheek. "You do."

She held his hand there, watching him. "I love you, too."

"It's not quite the same, is it."

She bit her lips together and looked down.

"Marry him." Crane encouraged. "Marry Nathaniel. I know you'll be happy."

For the first time, Tanya cracked a smile and the tears that followed were full of tender joy. "I'm getting married," she whispered. "Oh my God, Ichabod, I'm getting _married._ "

The indescribable, welling ache that had been eating him up inside, dulled. Thudded softly in the background likea heart beat. Yes, a sense of loss. A sort of hurt, that if he chose to feed it, would call itself abandonment. But at the forefront was a swelling in his heart of joy. The best way to love his friends, and show them how much he cared, how much they meant to him, was to be there for them. He reached to pat her head gently. "So, bride to be."

She giggled, eyes shining bright.

"What'll it be, for your walk down the aisle."

* * *

 

2015

"Could you do my hair like Abbie's?"

Crane whirls around prepared to deny another hopeful for what would be the tenth time today when he stops short. "Oh. Oh, thank God." he sighs, slumping in a chair. It's only four, and the salon just barely cleared out long enough for him to grab a late lunch. Cynthia had stolen bites between heads but now she's kicked back in one of the chairs with a cap drawn around her shoulders like a blanket. Her eyes squint open though at the sound of the new voice.

"Oh. You." she grumbles, shifting irritably and turning away. "I absolutely, one hundred percent, lay my aching hands and back and everything else, squarely at your feet."

"You old woman." Abbie teases, her voice light as she turns to Crane who looks similarly disgruntled, though his eyes dance, albeit wearily. "We've been swamped."

"From the moment the door opened." Cynthia grunts again. "It's been fun don't get me wrong but now everything hurts and I would love nothing more than if we could close early."

She says this in a pointed fashion that suggests Crane is likely the reason why they haven't.

"Wait fill me in," Abbie hops up in a chair. "What's been going on? Whoa!" she dodges just as a mag goes flying past her head. "Hey I need this face!" she laughs, reaching for the articles and beaming. She can't help it, she rather likes seeing her face splashed across the pages in triumph. And she's proud of her friends.

"What's the problem? I look great, you guys look great, and get lots of recognition."

"That!" Cynthia accuses laughingly. "That part! It's why I'm run off my feet"

"I'm afraid, Abbie, that your, mention of us on the carpet….is partly to blame." Crane admits with a soft smile.

Abbie can't bring herself to feel any remorse for giving them a business boost, just shrugs cheerily and says instead, "You're welcome."

"We were living quietly in obscurity," Cynthia continues to rant. "Nice little neighbourhood shop with some regular characters but _nooooo_ "

"Hey if I'm going on this wild ride, I'm taking you with me." Her eyes twinkle as she lobs the papers back over at her friend.

Cynthia sits up, grinning. "Well, there are worse fates. But what are you doing here? I thought for sure you'd be swamped in interviews."

"oh, back to back to back to back! But I needed a break!" Abbie thrills. "…..And…..my hair done?"

 They both groan.

"Abbieeeee" Cynthia drawls, flinging a dramatic arm over her eyes in despair.

"Honestly I love what you guys did for Oscars it's a fave, but it's maintenance, and I don't have anyone I trust to handle it so…..can we take this out? Please? I just need my head to have a breather before I fly out in two weeks."

"Another project, so soon?" Crane queries. He has shifted back into the distance he was keeping before, friendly familiar, as a sort of preservation of the bond they had before. He wants direly to put the Oscars fiasco behind him.

"Well yeah, Corbin released Pandora's script for the project, I told you it's historical. A drama, but I read it, and…." Abbie shrugs helplessly. "Can't help when a part speaks to you."

"Is she a cheater here too," he drawls casually while Cynthia muffles a squeak of laughter in the background. His eyes go round in horror as he looks to Abbie, his mouth agape. "I--I---I didn't mean." he stammers. Behind them Cynthia gathers her bag begins ambling towards the front door.

"C-c-Cynthia----"

"I'm done Crane. Stick a fork in me, I'm finished. Close up! Write a note!"

"I can't close up if she's still _here_." he grinds out. 

"I _am,_ still _here._ " Abbie adds helpfully, annoyed that she's being talked around.

"Well then do it at home, turn off the light," and with that Cynthia pecks them each on the cheek and slams out the front door. Crane turns back around to Abbie and twiddles his fingers anxiously.

"Your place?" she asks.

* * *

 

"This is nice. Cozy." Abbie kicks off her shoes in the doorway and looks around the cabin. "Nice property, this area."

"Yes. Some are rentals in the area but I am fond of the lake."

"You swim?"

He flashes a grin. "Like a fish."

The ready smile shocks her for a moment. She can't seem to ever put her finger on if he's a frittering anxious mess or if he's casual cool or both but at any rate, the switches give her a headache. He's quiet as he drops his bag and shuffles into the kitchen.

"Tea? Coffee?Before we start?"

"Coffee?"

He chuckles to himself as he pushes the buttons on the machine. A fancy, frivolous, he'd have never bought it himself thing that Caroline sent one Christmas when she couldn't make it out for the holidays. He'd made sure to absolutely master using it. A chef he is not. But a barista; well like hair, Crane could brew in his sleep.

Abbie settles intothe worn leather couch, hearing the clinking and clanking of the kitchen and wonders what he's getting up to in there before he emerges and with too much flourish presents her with a perfect cup. Little skim milk flower in the top and all. She blinks thrice and then looks up at him, tossing his head back and sinking into the chair opposite. She scrunches her nose, taking him in. "So….which cafe did you work at before?"

"Nothing beyond my own kitchen." he muses. "The machine, the Breville? came as a gift one Christmas, from my sister, Caroline."

Unwontedly, Abbie's heart clenches at the word 'sister'.

"Those are expensive, that was very generous of her."

He givesa half shrug. "…….I'm  her baby brother, as she handily likes to remind me….she's always doted." He peers into the dark depths of his cup, expression going wistful. "First proper head of hair I ever touched, it was hers. Always looked out for me….well I guess, still does." a half smile, and he takes a sip from the cup.

Abbie listens quietly, recalling she too had an older sister. But not one that doted, not one that nurtured or cared.

Only one that had quite literally conspired to see her dreams go up in flames.

"Abbie?"

"Hmm?"

"I….I was asking if you had siblings, not to pry, give me a minute and we'll get started……"

"One. A sister." a deep, heavy sigh, draining the last sip dark sip and rolling it on her tongue. "She hated me." she huffs a empty laugh. "She really hated me."

You've done it again Crane, he berates himself. Overstepped. "Oh. I----"

"It's fine. So, hey, where do you want me?"

* * *

 

A lavish, pristine sparkling bathroom, was not what she had been expecting. Broad sink, clean marble counters. Crane's home is woodsy and a little homespun, this bathroom, it more or less a chunk of a different world. She'd sputtered in shock when he showed her into the room.

"Do you do appointments here?" she asks, flabbergasted. "Is that a thing? why is----"

"Before we opened Whim. Yes." he smiles confidentially. "Now don't tell anyone," he scolds, with a small finger wag----that's the salon persona peeking through, but like a tease----"But while we were in school and finishing our apprenticeship, we had a few clients come through here. Strictly speaking we weren't supposed to but." he laughs. "But we were young and head strong and loved hair. And….oh….we needed money, there was that too. This, didn't look so nice back then." he assures her, rummaging in a cupboard and withdrawing a cape. An awful pale pink sickly colour but his face goes fond again with memory as he flings it around her, fastening it at her neck. "This was our 'shop' before we had enough money to open."

"You guys did business here?"

He seems to have gone into a sort of trance digging out his combs. He doesn't work from home anymore, it's almost as if he has to rediscover some parts of his own bath. "Lived and worked here. Whim was open about a year before Cynthia felt certain she could afford to move out. It was quiet without her. I was _thrilled_."

Surprised, Abbie giggles and Crane gives an easy curl of his lip as he approaches her in the chair.

"That was some years ago though, and….now I think sometimes it's too quiet."

Abbie bites her lips together. They have similar afflictions in a way. She wanted success and now it pours out of her ears, more to come, but in secret parts of her heart she craves a little stillness.

He wanted the peace and now he wants a little noise.

Crane pauses where he is. A different chair. A different space, but this pose, not so different from the last time. Mere days ago. He doesn't want things to get out of hand like last time. Things get so messy when he's out of control.

There is a tentative barrier, a distance that hovers between them. Abbie feels it, a thick, murky thing. A boundary. A frail, ethereal kind of fence. She wishes then tosmash it. If she wasn't so sure it would smash him in the process.

When she meets his kind deep blue eyes in the mirror her gut twists.

Abbie's not sure how she knows this---aside from a glimmer of another side of him---- but blasting someone like Crane to smithereens, towering and graceful, would be akin to taking a wrecking ball to timeless architecture, forever changed, irreversible. Something once so sturdy and improbably sure, vulnerable. Lost.

He would never be the same.

"We'll" he says at lengthcombing the hair back again, with askim of fingers. "what'll you have."

"Get these off, a wash and condition, please?"

A caress of her head as he reaches for her tresses. "Of course."

* * *

 

Past

"I can't find my cufflinks where are my-----"

"Have you tried your pocket."

Some ransacking of clothes before Nathaniel's head snaps up. He stares in a daze at the man in the doorway. Hair pulled back neatly. Looking polished and clean. In the colours he and Tanya picked out. _"Crane?"_ his voice cracks. "Crane are you really here….."not bothering to wait for an answer he was strolling across the room, throwing his arms around him, knocking the wind out of him, thumping his back and squeezing so tight.

Crane coughed as he returned the embrace. "Course I'm here, Nate. I'm your best man."

Nathaniel pulled back to take him in. His eyes, a bluish grey were over bright and his face scrunched in tearful relief. "Are….are we okay? Ichabod? It means the world that you're here and Tanya told me----"

Crane gripped Nathaniel by the shoulders. "There's no where else I'd rather be. Now I had to talk her into showing up today…..please don't make us both look foolish by making her wait for you."

"Wait. _What?_ "

"A full blown meltdown."

"Wait, but, is she okay? can I talk to her?" Nathaniel's immediate focus on finding and comforting Tanya warms Crane's heart. And flusters him. 

"Are you insane? You can't see the bride before the ceremony!"

" _But----_ "

"She'll _be there_ but you have to get there first. So come on." He casually walks over to the dresser where Nathaniel has been frazzled over looking the cufflinks in question for the past ten minutes. "Let's get you to the altar."

"Crane? We love you, you know that? We'll always want you to be a part of our lives."

"I know that." Tears leap to his eyes and he wipes them away hurriedly. "I know."

Nathaniel pauses in the doorway as they're about to leave. "Now you're sure she'll be there."

Crane gives him a light shove. "I'm sure!" __

* * *

And they walk down the aisle.

And they wait.

Nathaniel's hands quiver and Crane imperceptibly reaches for one of them, giving him a solid squeeze before letting him go. Then the music starts.

And there she is.

The same dress from the shop---he'd known it would be that one. With the pretty veil. And her hair, he did that. Something soft, she'd said. Simple. So curls, pinned and gathered. Gently and lovingly done. Framing her face. 

Her father walks her down the aisle. Pressed shirt, suit jacket, vest and tie. Beaming proud. Mrs. Jenkins watches tearfully from the front row.

She stops at last before him.

The minister says words about love and faith and vows are exchanged. Traditional, simple, delivered in quavering, hopeful, besotted voices.

"You may kiss the bride."

And he watches how Nathaniel cradles her face before pressing his lips to hers, how their lips touch one, two, three times, sweetly, before pulling away and bestowing one another with the most joyful smiles. There's applause and crying and Crane is doing both and before they make their exit the pair of them turn to him, crushing him tight.

"Thank you," they whisper. "Thank you so much."

And away they go.

Back down the aisle.

Husband and wife.

He loves them dearly, and he knows they love him back.

He knows his emotions were running unchecked, and he nearly lost the best friendship he's ever known with two wonderful people. He figures then that it's true what his mother said. About different ways people love, and the depths.

Crane's just not at this moment very sure if he can trust his own feelings in the future, no matter how varied and nuanced they may be. It seems a great risk to take again. He wonders if he'd ever dare.

Right now he's so grateful that, yes things have changed but he's more hopeful now than he had been before that it doesn't mean something he lost.

Later,  when they announce their expecting, and ask him to be godfather for their first, then second, then third; and the girls will adore him. Love him and he will have so much happiness and joy being part of their lives still. His friends and their offspring----he'll consider that after all, perhaps it was something gained.

When the hubbub of the wedding had died down Amelia Crane approached Ichabod before he left for school, and asked her son to shave her head. 

And he was ready. 

* * *

2015

"So, two weeks before you're on set." He clears his throat unsurely, wondering if she's changed her mind on him coming along.

"Yeah. It's A lovely script called 'Wait For Me' set during wartime. My character is a singer." she bounces a little in her seat. "I don't get to do that in my roles often. Sing."

"You must have a lovely voice."

"You'll get to hear it." she says off handedly, more intent on relaxing at his touch. Whatever other havoc he's capable of, he's got the most soothing pair of hands in the biz.

His heart quickens. So, she means it?

"We're headed to London."

She means it alright.

London! Oh, maybe he'll get a chance to catch a train and see Caroline.

Visit his dad.

He sighs heavily.

Visit his mother.

"Crane?"

"Can't wait Treasure. Can't wait."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts thoughts thoughts! lol. comments are air to breathe <3


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short chap I apologize. Next Update should be by Wednesday.

2015

Bedraggled and still cold they shuffle out of the airport. Crane looks suitably rumpled and indignant. They'd of course held him back rummaging through his bag with all the styling products. Abbie would be lying if she hadn't found his flustering proclamations about their search amusing.

"I just travelled with these last month and it wasn't an issue!" he argues. He'd been very close cousin to calm on the flight over, considering how many years it's been since he last came home. But this, this part unleashes whatever nattering anxiety had been slumbering before. "Do you know how expensive that----"

"It's a violation."

"In _what way_ "

"The size, the quantity."

"I declared all of it!"

"And yet it still violates policies."

He was grumbling and searching up and down for his wallet. "What's the fine, I'll pay it."

"Unfortunately, Mr. Crane. There's a fine for bringing it in, but we are under no obligation to release it to you."

"So you take my money and, I don't get my products back."

"Afraid so."

"I need them for work!"

Which had launched another intrusive inquiry of his papers and arrangements he had to be working, at least Abbie was able to help with that----it took another hour longer than it should have before they left and Crane is without a doubt, grumpy.

"Where's the blasted car." He grumbles as they amble out.

Abbie touches his arm lightly, gesturing to the sleek black car that awaits them. "Think that's it. I phoned ahead and told Pandora of the issue at customs, she said it's alright, he'll wait. So. After you."

With more irritated grunting he slings his trunk in the back, grabbing for Abbie's things without preamble, storms around to get the door for her and folds himself in an agitated heap beside her. He's so buggered about the treatment returning to his own birthplacehe can't be bothered to fluster too much about how closely packed he and Abbie are in the backseat. The addition of coats and scarves only minimizing the space between them.

"I'll reimburse you," Abbie says off handedly, looking out the window, admiring the scenery. It's her first time here, so it's a treat. Like her character. She tries to remember this feeling of being a stranger in a foreign land, escaping the dark, foreboding treatment of black women, compounded with fleeing during wartime. To venture out alone, unsure of what lays ahead.

This is motivation she can delve into later. Bring it with her to the screen. Hopefully.

It's a long drive, surprisingly, to the place they're being put up. Pandora had cheerily declared that much of the filming would be occurring in the townhouse they'd also be staying, which did a great deal to minimize costs. However, for a cast this size, it still meant an increased likelihood that her and Crane would be sharing a room.

Abbie hasn't quite decided if the possibility gives her thrills, chills, or both.

"It's beautiful here." she says softly.

"Beautiful?"

She jolts. She hadn't been expecting he would reply; he's seemed far too preoccupied being in a proper sulk.

"Well, yeah, there's a lot of history here. Look there----"

He cranes his neck out the window to see what she's gesturing at and huffs lightly. "I forget this is new for you. For me, this is as much the same as ever since I last saw it."

"You grew up here."

"…..I forget it, most days, to be honest……"

Abbie turns a bit in the seat, studying him. Slightly caught off guard by how close his face is, trying to peer out the same window as her. "You know, somehow, I thought you'd be glad to be back home."

Mouth pressing into a firm line he leans back in the seat and scrubs a hand across his face. "Home is……a strange thing to define. When all the parts aren't there, anymore."

She opens her mouth, considering a retort but stops short. Perhaps later, over dinner, would be a better time, to pry.

* * *

 

It's a quaint little brownstone, one of several lined off in a courtyard. There's plenty of activity, lots of movement on and off of people gathering equipment and hauling to and fro.

"Abbie!" the warm voice floats over to them as Pandora strolls out gaily, a billowing dark navy coat flies about her, and her hair pulled back in a severe bun.

"Pandora----mmphf!" the woman engulfs Abbie in a welcoming embrace and withdraws to excitedly grasp her hands. "The author of the scriptsis here if you'd like to meet her."

"Oh---yes, of course---"

"Avery! Avery come meet Abbie!" she turns back to Abbie excitedly. "Really, you have to hear it from her own mouth, her motivation and crafting of these characters, it's so nuanced yet warm. And there's a little surprise about my character too that i'm rather charmed by. Here she is!"

The woman in question strolls out to greet Abbie. They're about the same height. She wears a blazer and a graphic tea juxtaposed with a Chanel scarf and a matching bag slung casually over her shoulder. She gives Abbie a serene smile. "Avery, screenwriter of Wait For Me. And more than pleased to have you aboard to give it life."

"It's a pleasure," Abbie finds herself gushing. Something about the woman feels so, welcoming and assuring. Like an old friend she's longed to see.

Avery shifts a little to glance over Abbie's shoulder and her jaw drops slightly. "Well he looks like he was plucked from the pages of my script itself. Is thatTim?" she asks Pandora.

Pandora frowns slightly, glancing around before her gaze lands on Crane, hanging back by the luggage looking shell shocked. "No, that's…..Ichabod, Crane, correct?"

"Good memory." Abbie smiles. "Yes, he's my stylist. I trust no one else." she waves a hand to beckon him forward. He goes through Pandora's greeting arms first before extending a cautious hand and a polite bob of his head to Avery.

"Hello, Ichabod Crane. Co-owner of Whim Salon in Sleepy Hollow….." he trails off, eyes darting. "I must admit, I'm a little overwhelmed…."

Avery gives him a soft smile. " You'll get used to it. I do have some character and costume notes for you though, if that would help." she grins a little wider.

"Yes?"

"You're a dead ringer for our leading man. I'd say you look almost more like my vision than he does." Avery chuckles. "If he injures himself, think you could step in?" she jokes.

Crane begins to flush and opens his mouth, presumably to babble but Abbie cuts in, sparing him.

"Pandora where should we get settled?"

"Ah! follow me." And with that she sweeps away, meaning for them to follow. Crane grabs the bags and together he and Abbie keep pace following the swirl of coat as it weaves around cast and crew up the front steps through the door down a hall. Abbie does a double take passing one of the rooms. Avery hadn't been kidding. The man playing the Captain _highly_ resembles Ichabod. Behind her Crane stumbles and looks to see what she's looking at before he chokes in disbelief.

"Who---"

"Timothy Mellencamp" Pandora coos from around a corner. "Up here, follow me," she hollers and Abbie moves forward all but sprinting up the steps and feeling her heart thud, fiercely.

"I…..I have never met anyone who…."

"Could pass for your twin?" Abbie laughs nervously. "No, me neither."

Of course she's about to star in a historical romantic drama with a man who looks like the stylist that she's simultaneously attracted to and a bit wary of. Of course. This won't matter, this won't make things complicated, at all. Absolutely not. Nope.

"Here we are!" they've stopped outside a  room, door flung open wide, and of course it's the single room for the two of them.

And, one bed.

A queen.

"Unfortunately we couldn't get any single beds, we're renting the location and this is what it comes with" she apologizes. "This is a passion project and Heath and I are throwing everything we can behind production costs and well, paying and feeding you all well.I hope this won't be too much of an inconvenience."

Abbie and Crane exchange a cautious slow look before he sidesteps in with their bags. "I'm sure it'll be fine," he mutters, setting them down and taking a turn around.

At the door Pandora passes a searching gaze on Abbie, wondering if she's as amenable as her counterpart. "It'll have to be." Abbie says cheerily. "Thank you. It looks great."

"Wonderful. Alright well, take some time, rest, nap, what have you. We start tomorrow, but we're all having dinner in town tonight. You're welcome to join."

"Sounds, sounds great."

Pandora claps her hands gleefully together. "A place Avery found. She's been making an annual solo sojourn out here for years, she has a love affair with this city. No doubt it's shows in the script."

Abbie takes the subtle hint. Aside from just a night of fun and revelry, an opportunity to take in the scenery, to get a bit in Avery’s head.

"We'll be leaving at six. Bellow and I'll appear. Bye Crane!"

"Bye Pandor---" and she's gone.

Abbie closes the door and they both go about unpacking, studiously ignoring the lone bed as they take out clothes and toiletries. Abbie opts for an arm chair, digging around in her bag to casually look over her scriptwhile Crane quietly takes out curling and flat irons and containers of pins, grumbling a checklist to himself of things he'll need to replace now after having styling creams confiscated. "I can't imagine what sort of havoc they expected I would wreak with that…..persnickety power hungry little------"

"Crane?"

"Intrusive, _sneering_ \----yes Treasure" he answers absently.

She holds up a finger to her lips with a small smile.

His ears turn a little pink, embarrassed. "I'll just step out for a moment." He's too quick for Abbie to stop him, if she had intended to. He nimbly retraces steps to end up back outside and breathing deeply really lets it hit him that he's back home.

Home.

He'd called right after the tickets were booked. Made very tentative arrangements, in case there's time between filming. They're going to be here for several weeks, anyway. But at the least, he supposes he should call to say he's landed, safe and sound and all. The phone rings five times before it answers.

A voice, stronger than the body that carries it sounds through the phone. Unbidden tears spring to Ichabod's eyes. "Hello?"

"…..Dad? It's me."

George Crane's voice goes soft and fills with emotion. "My boy? Are you here?"

Crane nods tightly. "I'm here dad, I'm home."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> recognize anyone? lol.


	21. Chapter 21

2015

"I'm not sure of the schedule yet but yes…..first chance I get….I'll make dinner."

"Oh tell me you didn't come home after all this time just to kill your old man."

"Ha ha, dad, ha ha,"

"I look forward to seeing you son." George rumbles warmly. Crane smiles a little, a familiar, long forgotten swell of boyish pride inflating his heart.

"You too dad."

* * *

 

Abbie ransacks her bag hunting for a sweater. Casual, slouchy thing half falling off her shoulder, shimmying into a pair of jeans, that, fit a little looser in the waist than they did a couple months ago and hunts for an elastic to gather her hair up. Crane, buttoning a shirt as he emerges from the washroom watches her fluster a moment before reaching a hand into his bag and pulling out a grey scrunchy. It just so happens it matches her sweater. He sidles up behind her at the mirror with it stretched over his fingers. "May I?" he asks.

"I look like I'm struggling here don't I" she huffs, dropping one arm while holding her hair with the opposite hand. He tentatively stretches forward and offers a small smile, a light chuckle.

"Just a tad."

"I did know how to do my hair before you, you know." she says, dropping her other hand while Crane piles and re piles before droppingher hair and reaching for a brush.

"Mhmmm" he mutters, not meaning to be patronizing, he's just preoccupied.

"I did!" she insists.

"I absolutely believe you," He continues, not looking up once as he strides back over and subtly gestures she sit. She glances around a moment before hopping up on the dresser. Her feet don't even touch the floor. For a moment Crane observes her there, legs dangling with space for him to stand between them and quickly calculating how he'll have to reach around her before he draws a deep breath, approaching with caution.

"You _don't_ " she pouts, oblivious to the intimate position until he's actually standing there, in front of her. He's so narrow, she thinks absently. I could lock my legs around him. The thought has barely formed before a whiff of his body wash greets her nose. "You smell good," she squeaks.

"Thank you," he croaks back, trying to brush her hair both gently and quickly at the same time and it's not going all that well, but it will have to do as he stretches the scrunchy and wraps it around twice, tucking the ends. "There," he rasps, meaning to step back when her finger tips very lightly graze the front of his shirt. He stills.

"Why…..why are you so jumpy?" she doesn't meet his eyes, a little worried she might be wading back into forbidden territory.

"Last time I was very----"

"I don't mean last time, I mean….you hedge, around _everything._ "

"…..I……sometimes….in the past……"

"It's just, this isn't going to work. This, relationship," she rallies gesturing between them. "I mean, we're going to be around each other a lot and it's not going to do for me, for it to always be so tense here during the off hours. So, like if we have an issue, can we get it out of the way?"

"I don't have an issue. Aside, from, my outburst the other night, I…..there's nothing wrong. Between you and I." I am perhaps nursing a crush that has had no business forming and my prior insecurities like to rear their head from time to time but it's nothing some well intentioned repressing won't fix, don't you think?

She quirks a brow at him, studying, hunting for a lie. "Okay." she says carefully. "I'm hoping aside from having a friendly face who can take care of me---my hair" she adds in a rush, a little bewildered of her own phrasing. "That we can be exactly that, friendly. And not….not the faux friendly you are sometimes either."

He pauses, looks at her aghast. "Faux----?"

"Hon. Darling. T-t-that, flirty stylist thing you do…..it's….fake. And,"

The look on his face is a combination of shock and horror."Abbie I----"

"Look, I get it. A work face. An outside look. Public versus private. But…it's a balancing act? Trying to figure out which version of you I'm getting? So….can you stick to one, more or less? It's not that I don't want to take into account your feelings----we've all got shit we don't want to dredge upbut----it would just be easier to navigate if I understand what your feelings are." when she turns her brown eyes up at him he feels stripped bare, embarrassingly naked. And he's still standing between her legs. And it's, rather, warm here. He wonders how her thighs can emit so much warmth. Would they be hot beneath my palms, flares up in his mind with such speed it feels like an assault on his senses and he squeezes his eyes shut to make it go away.

Gazing up at him, Abbie is freshly reminded of the feeling of his lips descending on hers and the erratic fervour that had over taken them---but that was a moment that had come like a shocking storm, there and gone and buried beneath profuse apologies for indecency, improper behaviour.

So here he is, so close, and yet so far. Again.

He holds her gaze a beat before finally stepping away,tapping her knees and like some sort of button her legs swing closed, ankles locking together to keep them that way. There's a red flush creeping up the collar of his shirt as he clears his throat. "No more pretense….."

"Right…..I mean, I can't properly be your friend, if I'm tip-toeing around you. Right?" she nervously glances to the side, pulling up the sleeve of her sweater over her bare shoulder. A futile, nervous gesture.

Friend. Rings in Crane's ears.

How on earth can a word sound so welcoming warm and yet damningly distant. "Right." he swallows, extending a hand. "Let's do this proper then."

Abbie sputters and her cheeks heat. "What, you want to shake on it?" she teases.

Deciding to embrace the absurdity Crane throws his shoulders back and lifts his chin. "Might as well."

Deftly, she slips her much smaller hand into his own and inwardly hums at the warmth of his palm. Her eyes fixate on how their hands contrast and in spite of her earlier declaration she sees another way their hands could twine flash across her brain.

Fingers interlocked, clenched tight on a mattress. Or a wall. She's adaptable.

It's when Crane coughs lightly Abbie realizes she's just been staring at their hands and her eyes flick up to his, caught.

"Heh. Friends." She pumps her arm up and down a few times exaggeratedly and that forces a smile from him as he pulls away and finishes getting ready hunting for socks and a scarf to wind around his neck.

Coats, shoes, and scarves donned they take the stairs back down, meeting up with a few others on site as they go. In the gaggle ahead, another tall head bobs before them, Crane's doppleganger.

"You look just like Tim are you sure you're not related." someone chimes and they all laugh.

Tim, having heard his name glances back over his shoulder and does a double take before he grins. "Oh, We have to get a picture." he laughs as he introduces himself. "Timothy Mellancamp. Call me Tim. Not Timmy, I'll punch you." he jokes, bouncing Crane's shoulder with a little more force than Crane had been prepared for.

"Ichabod Crane, Call me Crane. not Icky, I'll _bludgeon_ you." he replies cheerily, bumping back twice as hard and Tim's eyes widen. He glances down at Abbie beside, watching the exchange with amusement.

"This one, your muscle?" Tim queries. His voice hasan easy drawl to that is earnestly charming and genuinely friendly. Abbie flashes a coy smile at him. Crane's stomach flips. He suppresses a sigh.

* * *

 

The Lamb and Flag.

"33 Rose Street on Covent garden." she recites, a little wistfully. Crane lifts a brow.

"Nostalgic for a place you've just been?"

Abbie shoots him a withering glance as they push through the doors. "Let me be day dreamy,"

"Far be it for me to interfere."

"……My character grows to love this place. I'm just….trying to find my way to loving it. Going from strange and skeptic, to thinking of the place as home. And she adapts to that idea, really quickly in the script."

"Indeed she does," Avery remarks, having sidled up behind them as they meander through the cozy lit space to a long table on the far end. Two of them. The others file in and make a ruckus hanging up coats and squishing in seats beside each other. "You seem to know your way around her already." Avery beams. Abbie flashes a smile.

"She's different than my usual…..but I think I'll like being in her skin for a while."

"Glad to hear it. Sit with me?" Avery invites, sinking down into a seat that Tim draws out for her before quirking a brow at Abbie. It dazes her a little bit. Because the mirror image of the man is standing beside her and how is it they both lift their brows the same way?

"Madam?" he smirks, fingers curled over back of chair and drawing it out slightly, sweeps an arm over it with a bow.

"Alright Captain, that's it charm her from the get go!" a brunette crows and the rest of the crowd laughs as Abbie chuckles and bobs her head, accepting the seat. He pushes her in just slightly before straightening and facing Crane. The two of them level eyes with one another and someone murmurs.

"The resemblance is uncanny."

"And you, Crane?" he reaches to draw the seat but Cranes hand lances out, gripping and hauling it out smoothly for himself.

"I'm fine, thank you." and sinks down into the seat. Huffing a laugh Tim saunters around the table to take his seat opposite Avery.

Menus shuffle and the waitress appears to take orders. "London Pride," Avery calls.

Pandora, a picture of dark elegance with a sconce flickering over head, "Cruz Alta Malbec….no no, bring the bottle. " she assures the waitress who pauses ever so slightly gauging Pandora's seriousness. Her dark eyes flash.

"O-o-of course! And for you?"

Abbie startles. There are a lot of options. She wants to try something new but the sheer amount of choice is a little baffling. "Might I make a suggestion?" Tim calls, seemingly to have noted her distress.

"By all means."

"Do you have a sweet tooth?"

"……I don't mind chocolate."

Tim grins, eyes twinkling. He turns his menu around for her to see and points down the line. "That ones for you then. London Porter. Chocolate notes."

 _"Why,_ how'd you know." She smirks.

"A gift, treasure." he grins and sinks back down in his seat.

Beside her, Crane stills, a death grip on his menu. Treasure. The nerve. How could he, how dare he.

"Hey," Abbie nudges him. "What'll you have?"

"I---I----excuse me I need the rest room."

"Oh sure, Just head on to the back and hang a left." their waitress, smiles brightly and moves on to the next person down the table. Abbie watches him go, ruffled by the quick departure. The conversation turns back around to the food and she waves her hand dismissively, letting the others call for an assortment of things to share before she pushes back from the table, subtly excusing herself.

Crane blustered in and back out, taking a moment at the sink to get his head back on straight. Of course they're going to have chemistry. Of course they're going to get along. It only makes sense they're going to be working together, morning, noon, and----at night she's going to crawl into bed with you after masquerading she's falling in love with a man that looks _just like you_ all day. "Only you Ichabod could land yourself in such…..something so stupid." he hisses, locking off the water he dries his hands and heads back out. Stopping at the bar to gather himself. He hadn't ordered at the table anyway. It's a busy night and the staff come and go. A chipper flirtatious voice starts at one end of the bar working its way down. Crane is looking around at the pub, filled with casual relaxed patrons, joking, eating, a sense of camaraderie. He strives to embrace that feeling of lightness so he's in a better mood returning to the table.

"Evening handsome what'll you have?"

"A Talisker," he replies turning back around, thinking to himself, he's going to need the extra buzz to keep his cool tonight when he meets eyes with the bartender.

The honey blond hair.

The bright ice blue eyes that squint and then widen in surprise.

"E-e-e---"

"Ichabod? Ichabod Crane is that you?"

* * *

 

Abbie is striding toward the washrooms when she sees Crane making a beeline for the door. No coat. notbackwards glance. She picks up her pace hurrying after him, bolting back out  onto the street looking to see where he's gone. "Hey, Crane!"

When a horn blares.


	22. Chapter 22

2015

A strong arm hooks around her waist yanking her back from the road just asa car goes speeding past, slamming her firmly into a hard chest. The wind knocked out of her, her heart bangs and clamours, fluttering like something frightened. That was nearly you. You were nearly done. In her shock she wraps her own arms around the one keeping her upright and leans her head back, eyes closed, panting a silent prayer in her head of thanks.

"Dear God what's wrong with you?" Crane demands but he doesn't let her go. He's just outside the bar. A cigarette hanging from his lips. He'd passed a man putting one out on his way in the pub and had asked for one and a light. 

"I---I saw----you leave---and----"

"Decided to walk into traffic?" his tone is harsher than anything she's ever heard, incredulous and severely irritated.

"I---look---just----since when do you smoke" she manages at last. He pauses then, seemingly to have forgotten and lifts a hand to pluck it from his lips.

"……I don't…..not really…..it's just a stress…..h-h-habit."

One he picked up from his father, to be honest.

It would be a while before his mother's health turned for the worst. Chemo bought her a good two more years. But when it came back, it played for keeps.

When George wouldn't talk, choosing instead to take a long stroll down to the park a couple blocks from their house and take a few drags there instead, Crane took up accompanying him. He'd found at the time that it was easier to simply join in with dad rather than try to talk through the clouds of smoke. Choking for air was easier than choking out sobs.

Easier to inhale and exhale with him.

Taking one breath closer to the grave in their grief, together.

Though he'd quit, almost as soon as he was he'd got back to Sleepy Hollow, and George had been weaning himself off too. Caroline had badgered them both about how disappointed Amelia would have been seeing them in such a hurry to join her.

That had been enough motivation for George.

Never could stand to upset his wife. Dead or alive.

"Oh" Abbie breathes, slackening in his hold. "Is this one of those, things," she says.

"Things?" He inquires, twirling the cigarette between his fingers before tossing it on the ground, giving it a good grinding out with his shoe.

"Where, you don't want to talk about it but you're going to be weird about it----" she gestures vaguely, barely, registering he's still got his arm around her.

He's got the grace to notice it too, and drops his arm, slowly, releasing her and her feet that had been straining a little before against his height solidly touch the pavement. She steps away and straightens her sweater and Crane pats her head, keeping her bun in place. "No," he says at last.

"Hmm?"

"No, I'm, not going to be weird about it." He sighs. "It was warm in there, and, well it's odd seeing someone who looks like you….well exist? It's very strange. And you get along so well." he presses his lips together, biting the words back in before he shrugs and utters a curse under his breath, scrubbing a hand across his face. "I mean of course you're going to," he rallies. "Just wish It was that easy for me, for us, I mean, for me to get along with you I…..I am jumpy, aren't I."

Her eyes twinkle as her lips pull into a smile. "Yeah, but, sometimes, like, once in a blue moon, its kinda cute."

"Oh. I'll take that, I suppose."

Her answering laugh makes him grin and he chafes his hands together. "Chilly," he remarks.

"You left without your coat."

Right.

"So, really, you were just, over heating in there? Jealous of my rapport with Tim?"

It would be simpler, truth be told, to say yes, it was just that. It's not untrue. But truthfully, he was flummoxed to lay eyes on Evie Spencer again after all these years behind the bar.

Sure, it's been years.

Sure she apologized.

But memories are exactly that for a reason. They're memorable. He still vividly remembers a night she humiliated him on what most would call a milestone evening. It's just more of a confrontation with the past than he wanted to deal with. Being back home here, right now, seems quite enough to grapple with.

It would be easy to sum everything up in overwhelmed, and yet, he knows he'd just be allowing himself to hide. He doesn't want, to hide, not really.

"Actually, I ran into someone, at the bar. And…..well she…."

"She?"

Oh out with it. "She came on to me and said nasty things when I didn't…..engage. It was our prom."

Abbie frowns and sucks air through her teeth. "Wow.....I'm sorry, Crane."

"They all use to say a lot of nasty things----wait we're out to dinner aren't we?" he cuts himself off, not entirely to deflect but, well it is rude to disappear for this long.

"All?" Abbie reaches to touch his arm. "Hey, Crane?"

"Years past Treasure, years and years and years……."

"But words scar." she says earnestly, her eyes shimmering. "Who ever said 'names will never hurt me', they're a fucking liar." she laughs weakly, and then wipes at her eye, turning away.

What has she seen. He wonders. What has she heard. Who hurt you? Who would ever want to hurt you as people hurt me?

"Abbie?"

"Yeah, let's, let's go back in?"

"Let's." They turn around and Abbie's fingers catch at his and he doesn't pull away, lets his own curl deeper over hers instead. "Thanks for coming after me, by the way."

She gives him a little squeeze. "Thanks for saving my life."

"Oh you're being dramatic." he rolls his eyes while Abbie giggles beside him.

"Really, thank you. Hey looks like the food is here." Tightening her hold she drags him back past the bar and Crane follows after her, his gaze fixed firmly ahead.

Evie Spencer lifts her head once to watch him go by, toted along by the shorter lovely woman, watches as they settle back into seats and a round of voices raise.

* * *

 

"There you are!"

"Thought you'd fallen in there Crane." Tim drawls and then tips his glass in the direction of Abbie. "And then I worried this one here fell in behind you."

"All one peace, Tim. Thank you for your concern." Crane answers, reaching for his glass.

"Sharing a face and all I'm protective of you." he jokes and more laughter sounds. Abbie leans into Crane's side just a bit and he tilts his head to hear what she's about to say, only noticing a moment too late that she was actually stealing fries from the plate that had landed before him.

"Hey!"

"What?" she gives an impish grin and Avery knocks her glass for a toast.

* * *

 

Evie shrugs to herself. Times have changed. Probably wasn't even him.  She looks up at the next customer sliding onto a stool "Evening handsome, what'll you have?"

 

 


	23. Chapter 23

2015

Stuffed to the brim and a little drunk, all of them. Staggering, merry, gaggle, Pandora, elegantly swaying to and fro with her bottle still in hand.

It was proved to be a grand night out. Tim is robust and friendly, and persistently engaging with everyone around the table. He teases, he flirts, he mutters witty, absurd, sometimes rude things under his breath that set them all to chuckling.

Crane wishes it was so easy for him to command a crowd outside of the shop. He wishes he was at ease as Tim seems among a bunch of strangers. He wants to dislike him, if for no other reason than Abbie seems to take to him very well, but Tim is also very curious about him, too, about everyone.

And Crane finds he can't properly fault the man, for being what he perceives as a better version of himself. He wonders if anything would have been different in his life to date, had he been like Tim.

More friends, probably. Less deeply attached, certainly.

Altogether he's sure he'd be less, fidgety and anxious about his own feelings. A man like Tim might have long since had the state of mind to ask Abbie out proper, instead of dancing around and trying to furiously talk himself out of it, like Crane keeps doing.

Though, it gets harder and harder to talk himself out of it, especially because in their merry wander back to the town house Abbie managed to slip her hand in his and with her free hand grasped his arm and had been comfortably hanging on him all the way. She laughs and trills with the others as they talk and jest. Even when Tim volleys a joke her way, she responds gaily, with her hand still in Cranes. He thinks Tim arches a brow at them, at one point, but he can't be for sure.

Even though they bare a resemblance; it does not make his expressions transparent.

* * *

 

Up in the room Abbie groans and flops on the bed, "I ate too much and someone should have stopped me."

"……Personally, I worried I might lose a hand if I got in your way."he turns to shuck off his shoes, tugging his arms out of his sleeves when a pillow thumps into his back and his knees buckle from shock. He spins around, mouth half open to shout when it whacks him again.

And again.

Again.

"Hey!"

"I know---" thump, "That you--" whump, "did not---" Whump, whumpff, thump, "Just call me greedy!" she accuses but the light is dancing in her eyes and her giggles betray her.

She'd had at least three more drinks at the bar. At least.

So had he.

Subconsciously he'd been keeping stride with Tim, who was himself trying to match Avery shot for shot and it had, snow balled, for all of them, from there.

"I didn't _say_ that!" he yelps affronted, ineffective as he tries to block the next blow with his forearms. She continues her attack until he's sinking down, one knee at a time.

"Yes you did! Judging me when you're a bottomless pit!"

"Abbie!" he calls, wide eyed with dismay.

"I think you put away a whole plate of donuts by yourself!"

Backed into the corner as she bounces up on the mattress, looming over him he finally grabs for the edge of the blanket and gives it a vigorous, sharp tug. "Now see here!"

Her eyes widen as the blanket and sheets shift under her, losing her balance, flailing before Crane bounds back to his feet, the blanket stretched wide between his hands like a net and lunges for her.

"Crane!" she screeches as he lands, "Crane! stop it! I give! I surrender!" The blanket wraps around her with his limbs and she thrashes in his hold, begging for mercy but still struggling to wield the pillow.

"I don't believe you!"

"Please!" she laughs. "Please I beg you!" They tousle, bounce and roll around on the mattress. He releases her for but a second before she gets an arm free and swings. He grunts on the impact and he glares down at her indignantly. 

"You _treacherous_ **_minx_** "

"What?!" she gasps, delighted and scandalized.

Throwing an arm to capture her again he wrestles until she stops struggling, both of them panting and breathless. "You----heard----me" he gasps, his face pressed against the lump of her body bundled in the blanket. Abbie's laughing so hard her side, her stomach, her chest hurts. And her cheeks ache from smiling so hard. There's a small headache kicking up in the back of her head from where muscles pulled too tight in her grinning and screaming. She sighs and laughs softly.

"Oh my God. I can't believe you."

"Believe _me?_ "

"Yes you, you----"

"You, started, it." he huffs. Exhaustion hitting abruptly hard and fast. He feels the lump twist and shuffle until Abbie turns around and he feels her hand pushing through the cloth at his face.

"You asleep?"

Half drowsy, and finding the blanketed form rather soft beneath his head he gives it a comforting squeeze, as one might a teddy bear or body pillow. "Not yet," he yawns, nuzzling in deeper before catching himself.

"It's okay." Abbie says, sensing the moment he tenses and is about to spring apart. Some more shifting and she manages to push the blanket down from around her shoulders to free her hands. She lets one wander toward his head. "May I?" He doesn't dare lift his head to look her in the eye, he's a little preoccupied realizing his arms are wrapped around her lower half and that he'd just, squeezed her and he's wondering if his hands are some place improper. But she'd have said, wouldn't she? He prays she would have said, he can't afford to cause any more offence. "Crane?" she calls softly. "May I?"

"Hmm?"

"Touch your hair?"

He gives a little nod. "…..Sure, Treasure."

He feels his strands move tentatively at first, before her fingers venture deeper, her hand drifting down to the nape of his neck and he feels the slight scratch of her fingers there. He lets out a moan. Her hands still for a second before she continues, her fingers moving a little slower, tentative, almost.

It feels really nice and he sighs. His whole being relaxes and his fretting thoughts scatter from his brain. "Is this alright, Crane?"

"…It feels, it feels, very nice, Abbie." He yawns, sitting up to stretch. In the brief moment Abbie rearranges herself properly under the blankets, one arm thrown open on the pillow opposite, invitingly, he imagines, but he wouldn't dare be so bold as to presume.

"Then why'd you move," she teases, eyes twinkling. The hand across the pillow wriggles its fingers playfully. Oh. That was an invitation. He blushes.

"You're not going to change for bed?"

She shrugs. "I'm comfortable like this, although." her hands disappear back under the blanket and after some rummaging he watches as her jeans go sailing into a corner.

His brain short circuits. He's positive Abbie doesn't wear stockings or thermals.Which means beneath that sweater and blanket, is just, her underwear, her bare legs. This oversized sweat-----some more wriggling and a bra, joins the discarded jeans. She flops back over grinning at him. "There. Comfy."

"I-----"

"Just take the jeans off." she drawls. Lifting the blanket. "Come on, I won't look." she teases, squeezing her eyes shut.

Bewildered he shucks out of his pants, tugging self consciously at the hem of his boxers. He looks back at her adorable face, all scrunched up and slides quickly under the blanket with her. Too quickly. His knees bump hers.

"Oh!" he gasps.

Her eyes wink open. "There you are." she smiles drowsily, reaching to play in his hair again. He draws a little closer to let her and sighs at the touch. Melts into it. She watches the peace that falls over his face, feeling soothed by the quietness of him. His peace, seeming to bring her own. "Ichabod" she breathes.

"Hmm?" his brows lift in inquiry over shuttered eyes, his lashes fluttering against his cheek bones.

"A little closer" she urges, softly, gently.

Slowly, those blue eyes open to lock onto hers and she feels the mattress shift as he does just that. He keeps his eyes trained on hers, gauging her reaction.

"Closer?"

"Abbie….."

"You're a good cuddler." she explains, a little sheepish. "And friends, cuddle, don't they?"

He thinks back on his fond close friendships of the past, of his own friendship with Cynthia. Yes. Sure. Friends exchange certain levels of intimacy; sure they cuddle.

But this feels different.

This feels like something distinctly more, involved, and intimate that is masquerading as 'normal' so neither of them have to acknowledge the charge it carries with it.

"Right?" she prods.

Another shift, his hand grazing her thigh. Oh God she's hot. Warm! Her thigh IS warm! Why is she so warm! oh! feeling he's let his fingers linger too long he's in a hurry to settle them somewhere else and lands on her hip. And then he swiftly course corrects to her waist. Although who does he think he's fooling at this point is anyones guess. Abbie shudders beside him as she hides a snicker. He feels her free hand reach for his elbow and tug him forward, locking him more securely around her and bringing them very close. She curves that arm up around his back, as if embracing him, and he has little choice but to do the same.

Where her thighs were warm, her neat feet are not, and he feels one reaching shyly to touch him. "Sorry," she whispers, still looking at him. "My toes are always cold. But I don't really like socks."

"…..That's….that's alright."

"Is this okay? Are you alright, like this?"

Dear God yes, he wants to say but direly doesn't want to appear over eager. "It's…..it's fine."

Her feet nudge just a little bit closer, wedging and tangling her legs with his own. He goes so willingly into this tangle feeling like its a depth of closeness that could only be dreamed of, and simultaneously as though he's setting himself up for disappointment enjoying this so much but----perhaps he should be glad of the bits he has and indulge these fleeting moments.

Call it a blessing that after he was such a mess last time they shared quarters, that she is so willing to draw near to him again.

Her fingers are still in his hair. They lie, face to face.

"Crane,"

"Treasure."

"May I …..ask you something?"

"We're bare legged and tangled up under a blanket I think you'd damn well better," he mutters. Abbie snickers again.

"You'll tell me, right, when it's too much?"

When, he notes. Not if.

He feels lucky he hasn't burst into flame already as it is.

"Is that the question you meant to ask?"

"No."

How in Heaven has she found room to move even closer----he could whimper for the softness of her so near. He can smell her. She wedges her chin in the join of his neck to shoulder. Her soft cheek laying on his own. Her lips, with a light smack, near his ear. "Okay?" she asks.

"Is this what you meant to ask?" he tries again, voice barely above a hoarse croak. He's a little nervous that any, closer, and something is going to wake up and ruin this quiet, sleepy, intimate moment.

No dancing around it, it's very intimate to be like this and he wishes he knew what she meant by it.

"Would you tell me….." her voice trails off and she gives him a little squeeze. Her legs that trap around his, her arm around him and theone in his hair, all together, clutch him a little tighter, pulse with warmth. "Would you tell me, what they said?" She buries her face in his shoulder, still keeping him close, latched onto him.

He can't run, like this. But he finds he doesn't want to. She's trapped him in the most involved display of connected comfort and he's endeared to her, creating this cocoon of herself, this shelter, for him to share himself in. "Who do you mean," he asks softly, letting his thumb sweep back and forth.

"The people…..you went to school with. Crane," she releases shuddering breath. "I'm not trying to make you relive bad things, I'm really not, I just…"

"You ask really loaded questions, are you aware?"

Another squeeze. It's as if for every moment she thinks she's treaded too far, that she may offend him, she anchors him closer.

"The last time you asked me, personal things," he sighs, feeling fresh shame.

"You kissed me while also vowing you could eat me alive or something."

It's his turn to squeeze back this time, though as an admonishment. "I did _not,_ _say that_."

She chuckles and pulls back just enough to look him in the eye. "I wish you had."

Perhaps she's more drunk than he thought. 

"Abb----"

"But anyway," she barrels on, readjusting herself so she tucks her head beneath his chin. "Part of that……outburst…..tonight…..stems a bit from that, doesn't it?"

"The past doesn't just….vanish." he replies simply.

"…..What did they say?"

* * *

 

And he tells her about his first bully,  Emery Ross. Tells her about Evie Spencer and Ronald and Chad. And all the other myriad voices that had followed him for years. Chattering, vicious little hisses in the corners. Right up until he finally left for school. She listened, making agreeable, emphatic noises when a detail was particularly hard for her to swallow. She knows how words can cut and wedge deep in your heart. She knows how it can isolate and beat you down.

Fists and nails and pain, deeper than any surface wound. But maybe he doesn't know about all of that.

It's headed towards one am when he finishes, still in each others arms. He's more comfortable with her there now, a feeling of rightness that worries him for he's sure this isn't something he can keep but----just have this, he thinks to himself. Small moments, however we come by them, are worth cherishing.

"……Do people still….."

"Names like that? No, no, Just, some things always, trigger, a little. I apologize again for the way I behaved before."

"It's forgotten, Crane."

He licks his lips and curls his arms tighter. Might as well go all in. "It's my turn now, Abbie…..tell me about……" a snore. A soft thing.

Affected.

Deliberate.

_Feigned._

He pulls away, retracting his limbs, gently detaching hers, rolls over, and goes to sleep.

* * *

 

The first few days shooting are splendid. Crane has more fun than he anticipated he could. The crew is genuinely nice. And he gets to watch while they rehearse and film. He calls Cynthia to check in on things back at Whim and she cheerily tells him she more than has everything under control and asks for details about set. "Cynthia you know I can't." he scolds.

She rolls her eyes. "is Abbie free to say hello?"

He glances over at them just finishing a scene, the end of the first encounter between Abbie's character and the Captain and he waves her over. She sashays over eagerly, accepting the phone from him with a grateful flash of a smile. She turns the corner out of view and he watches her go, the cream yellow of the dress hugging her figure and her coiffed hair, truly setting her apart as a beauty of another time.

"A vision, isn't she." He jolts and then presses a hand to his chest. "Betsy don't sneak up on me."

Betsy flashes him an impish grin. She's a brunette with big eyes and a personality that's a cross between terse and friendly. She's in costuming.

"Well, do you agree?"

"Of course I agree." he whirls on her. "I---what are you looking at me like that for." she taps her bottom lip thoughtfully. "No reason. How tall are you?"

His eyes narrow. "Why----"

"Crane!" a hand claps him too hard on his shoulder and he fires a glance at his pseudo reflection grinning at him. "You know I've been telling Avery, if I'm sick, just send Crane on in. No one will know the difference."

"Certainly, he looks about your size Tim." Betsy gives a wink and Crane backs away from them both just as Abbie returns, passing the phone back to him.

"Thanks," she smiles, her hand lingering just a moment on his, her eyes glitter at him warmly. Fond. Tim clears his throat.

"I share a set with her, and sometimes, the scene feels so intense, so, suffused, with some unnameable energy I think---'My God, she's brilliant' but then I think, is it that she's brilliant, or she's just imagining that I'm you." he laughs, bumping Cranes shoulder as he returns to set.

Crane's mouth has suddenly gone dry.

"It's because she's brilliant." he says tightly. "She's….she's a phenomenal actress."

Betsy hums agreeably. "In my experience, a lot of actors and actresses, draw on their own, personal feelings, some times, to help fill out a role." and off she goes back to wardrobe, ironing to be done, she hollers as she wanders away.

"Action."

He watches Abbie and Tim playing opposite each other, in that bizarre way like having some sort of outer body experience. He thinks of the new rapport they've had lately. Intense, in some aspects of the closeness. The silent, easy, comforting, welcome touches and foolishly wonders if any of that could be true.

* * *

 

At the end of that day, Avery gives some notes for the next couple of scenes being filmed, announcing they're taking a break for two days and reconvening. He decides that's a good a time as any to schedule to see his dad.

"Are you bringing her?" George chimes eagerly.

"You're not going to ask for an autograph are you."

"I just want to meet the woman you're bringing home after all this time----"

" _Dad_ , it's not like, that."

"Is she coming _with_ you" he persists as his son groans. "I'll…..I'll ask."

"Love you son."

"Love you too dad."

"You'll ask me what?" she calls as she walks into the room, still wiping makeup from her face, reaching haphazardly for pins in her hair.

"Wait wait, wait, come here let me do that." Crane rises swiftly, taking over putting her hair down, putting the hairpins in a case, reaching for a spray and brush.

"Oh come on Crane I'm tired."

"Ah ah ah," he tuts. "It's called maintenance."

"But---"

"Just nod off like usual," he smirks.

"I like, your hands, how many times do I have to say they soothe me!"

His face flushes. Many more times, if you please.

After, sliding under the blanket she continues. "You'll ask me what?"

"Hmm?"

"You were on the phone?"

"Oh. My father….haven't seen him, in awhile, and I figured since we're here, I….I'm going to visit him. He'd like to meet you…."

"Me!"

"O-o-o-only because I said I was working a film! He got instantly starstruck."

He can't quite make heads or tales of the expression on her face.

"Would….would you like to come?"

Her mouth quirks. Isn't there a scene like this in the script she thinks, a little amused. Where she goes for dinner with the Captains family and they get up to shenanigans in the barn.

Not that she's banking on any reenactments.

"Sure."

"You don't have to if you don't-----sure?"

"Yeah, Crane. Sounds like fun. Is it near here?"

"Only about half hour, give or take driving, I might have stayed overnight….." he trails off. 

"Well, I'll pack my script to look over a bit then."

* * *

 

Caroline scrubs at her eyes as she staggers toward the phone the next morning. "What is it dad." she grunts.

"You'll never guess who your brother is bringing home."

 


	24. Chapter 24

2015

The water runs coursing over her skin. She's aware of the door creaking open as he blindly tries to snag his cologne off the counter. They'd unpacked and settled in more or less since they'll be there for a while until filming wraps. Abbie resists the urge to rolls her eyes; she'd told him he didn't need to tip toe around her that way. The curtains are always drawn. And even so, people have seen Abbie naked, in a professional capacity, plenty of times. Hell, he's seen her films. Even he's seen her naked, before they'd ever even established themselves as friends.

His shyness is sweet, though, so she chooses not to tease him when his fumbling is unsuccessful and she hears something slip from his hands and clatter. Bites back a laugh at his softly muttered curse.

He really thinks she hasn't heard him all this time? Bless him.

Another fumble.

"Damn, damn, _damn,_ "

The door swings further open and she figures he's realized wandering hand and prayer aren't going to help him find what he needs. But then, the fog from the shower probably also won't help.

She hears his audible gasp as he enters into the damp heat. Still trying ever so desperately to be quiet. Until his foot lands on the bottle of spray and then events happen, very fast.

A yell.

A worried exclamation.

Windmilling arms scrabbling for purchase and a hand snagging on the curtain and----another hand grasping and missing it and so has to make do with her hands, trying to cover her dripping form.

"Crane! Crane are you alright?"

He scrabbles on the floor, "Yes, I'm sorry Abbie I'm fine I'm----" his jaw drops and his face goes white as a sheet realizing he's torn down the shower curtain. She watches his eyes dart over her, water droplets in her hair, the constant jet stream beating down on her skin until she reaches over shakily to turn the pipe off--which means she has to move the hand that's covering her breasts-----and his mind clouds over with thoughts of how beautifully dark the peaks are before catching himself staring and scrambles, lurching to his feet. "Oh my God I'm so sorry I didn't mean----"

"Crane, it's okay" she reaches after him---he chokes again as he notices the dip of her waist tapering off into her thighs as he grasps the door. "Sorry, Crane, look"

His hands seem to keep slipping on the door knob.

"Crane your cologne."

He whirls around with his eyes shut, ducking to the ground and trying to feel for where it's gotten to before springing back up with it in hand and slamming out the door.

Daintily,steps out on the mat, reaching for her bathrobe. Well that's one way to start the day.

* * *

 

When she emerges Crane is very studiously combing his hair. Well. More like fussing with it. The way one does when they need something to do with their hands. After all, he only has so much hair to work with. The red dye had long since washed out and it was back to it's original hue. He doesn't wear it long and from her experience roaming her hands around in it----he doesn't subscribe to a lot of product.

He seems to have chosen to pick a fight with precisely one lock of hair and can't decide if he wants to push it back or leave it there in front of his face. She clears her throat.

"Crane?"

His shoulders hike up to his ears a moment before he turns, avoiding her gaze. "I'm a clumsy oaf."

Chuckling, Abbie goes to the outfit she laid out the night before, a maroon sweater dress, hanging on the back of their door. "I won't argue with you there. But if you'd just knocked and come in like a regular person that wouldn't have happened." she cocks her head to the side playfully, smiling at him.

"Yes…well…. it wouldn't be my style if I didn't make an awkward production of it, now would it."

Abbie glances over her shoulder at him as she shimmies into her underwear; she manages to slip her arms out of the sleeves and to finagle herself into her bra with the robe still hanging on her shoulders before she turns to the sweater dress and flings it over her head, letting the robe fall as she goes. "It wouldn't," she agrees. "But it might be _slightly_ less _eventful._ "

Retorting is an instinct, whether or not he has anything to say. She's just tugging the dress down over the curve of her hips, wriggling as she does and he doesn't mean to but he notes that her dark red undies, boy shorts edged with lace hugging her full, firm posterior, match the dress, before she tugs the hem the rest of the way. She straightens and twists around, inspecting herself.

"Is this okay?" she asks, stepping over beside him at the mirror. "It's not too tight?"

He swallows. "Red is your colour," he murmurs. "It….you look lovely." his voice comes out a little husky and he surprises himself. She glances at him, a smirks toying with the corner of her lips as she digs around for a cosmetic bag and then swipes an identical shade, very lightly on her lips, just for a smudge of colour, before applying a balm. She bites her lips together, admiring the darkened hue and taps his shoulder. She pouts at him.

"What do you think?"

"The dress looks perfect----"

"No I mean, is this colour alright or is it too much with the dress." she points at her lips.

He wonders if she's deliberately trying to provoke him. He licks his lips and leans down just a bit closer to see---she bites her lips again and pushes them out----"Perfect!" he yelps, turning around.

Satisfied Abbie sits on the bed, hauling on long socks and finally taking him in. The navy sweater, collared shirt. Dark slacks, brown belt. A perfect fit.Polished shoes. Still fussing with his hair. And for all his trouble he smells warm and musky and wonderful.

"You look good enough to eat stop fiddling with your hair" she groans, exasperated.

He stills, raising an eyebrow at her. _"Eat?_ "

Better walk that back. "That, is not, exactly what I said….."

The brow arches higher, she would almost dare say flirtatiously. Saucily. "Good, because I'm too big." the words aren't out of his mouth a half second before his eyes blow wide. "That….I didn't mean….I think that came out wrong……."

She can't resist, she grins wickedly at him."Not at all. I have an _extremely healthy appetite_."Crane fiddles with his collar, feeling too warm.

"Did you pack an overnight bag? I think the car is going to be here soon."

Abbie bobs her head happily. "Ready to go."

A brief flurry of grabbing shoes, coats and bags and down the stairs they go. "Ah. Where are you off too?" Pandora coos from the kitchen.

"Crane's got family here, we're going to visit."

"Travel safe, and we'll see you when you get back"

"Will do."

* * *

 

"You know Crane I didn't ever picture where you grew up, but, this fits. It makes sense." Abbie sighs at the sight of the red bricked house, neighbours on either side, but with considerable front yard space. A great towering tree, limbs bare and frosted, overhangs the driveway.

Crane just manages to finish paying the cab before the door opens and a man ambles out.

He's broader than Crane. And his hair is darker, a little courser, and very grey at the temples. Just as tall, maybe a hair shorter. Same nose too, shape of his face too. It comforts her for some reason to see an older likeness of Crane. It's nice to have family living, a reflection of yourself still wandering the world.

She'd always taken after her parents more than her sister. She'd gotten Mama's complexion, full lips, twinkly eyes. From her father, a stubborn dry humoured spirit. She wishes in that brief moment so many years later that her parents were living to visit home. That she could say, "This is Ichabod Crane, Mama. He does my hair." And Lori would tease, "is that all he does?" and she'd be appalled and admonish her while her father chuckled in the background.

He's never going to meet them. The thought strikes her then; a sharp bitter pang of sadness that brings water to her eyes. The hurt is so bright and acute she barely has time to register why it bothers her so much that he can't meet them in the first place. Doesn't spend any time to question why she'd even imagined bringing him home.

This isn't that, she reminds herself as Crane gets the door and helps her out. This isn't, that, meet my family moment----they're abroad on work, and this is nothing more than a convenient, circumstance.

She wishes she didn't give a damn what his father would think of her.

"Ichabod!" the man booms, coming down the walk to greet them. He throws his arms wide, folding Crane up in them, thumping his back, rocking him side to side. Her heart feels like it's crumbling when she notices he's crying. "My boy, my boy, oh my boy." he cries, smacking kisses on his son's cheeks.

"Dad," Crane chokes. "Dad! Oh, Dad, come on,"

"I should wring your ear for taking so long to come back home."

"You didn't do that, that was mom……" Crane gasps. "And….the ear she was wringing was yours" His father chuckles warmly as his tears flow.

"It sure got me to listen."

"Sure did."

"Oh my boy, I've missed you."

"Dad."

"Hmmm?"

"Um….well," he throws his head back, nodding at Abbie watching them a few paces away.

She misses her mothers hugs.

Misses her fathers fawning.

God she misses them, she always does but she can't remember the last time it felt this fresh and deep. The last time that her life really felt lacking.

"Oh! Is this her," He whispers out the side of his mouth.

Crane detaches himself, smiling lightly before gesturing for Abbie to come over. "Abbie Mills, Oscar award winner…..client and friend."

It's the first time he's introduced her, much less as a friend. A few days ago he would have said the label had denoted a level of distance. But since then, and today, this moment, he lets the idea of friend be less complicated and more fond.

They're closer these days, then they've ever been, though he's not sure whether that says much.They've developed a routine and a level of comfort----even if he is naturally inclined to being a bit jittery----and sharing the bed, the silent, casual cuddling, well, that helps.

"A pleasure, Mr. Crane," She extends a hand which he looks down at before opening his arms.

"George Crane, proud dad.and a friend of my son is family, if you don't mind?"

"Dad," Crane rasps.

But Abbie needs little invitation. That father son embrace had been heartwarming and wholesome. She'd envied it. She steps into his arms and the bear of a man engulfs her---though closer now, she can feel that his frame is smaller than he lets on from a distance. Nonetheless, its so nice and she blocks out the mental images of her own father, built like a red wood tree, as she steps back. George appraises her.

Up close, his face is thinner. She wonder if he ails from anything beyond old age.

She's jealous he's able to age at all.

"Well look at you. Just as beautiful in the flesh. I've seen all of your work you know."

Beside them Crane groans. "Dad,"

"What? The moment you said, I went and streamed them all…..you've done some really revealing work----of character! You've done work that reveals a lot of character! Lots of naked---"

"Dad!" Crane blurts.

"Emotion! I was going to say emotion!" But George's gaze fixates just someplace above her head so as not to meet her eye, his ears turning pink.

Are all men in this family like this, she muses. She glances at Crane, waggling his brows and gesturing towards the door at his father who's answering him silently in kind and Abbie wonders if Crane had son, would he also inherit this Crane family skittishness. Not sure why she's imagining if Crane had children. 

"I didn't want to seem oblivious. What did I say wrong?"

"Nothing Dad, nothing, can we go _in?_ " he pleas.

George beams. "Course you can. Come on Abbie, come in! Oh Crane I brought all of your favourite ingredients to botch for dinner!"

"Ha ha ha ha ha!" Crane barks. Abbie muffles a snicker as she pries off her boots and drops her bag in the doorway.

"Ichabod, bless him, he's my blood. Gifted young man. Martial Arts. Played the trumpet. Of course, hair. But cooking? try as he might culinary magnificence, is but a dream he strives, ardently, mind you, to achieve."

"Dad" Crane calls from where he's gone investigating in the kitchen."Is this Mrs. Jenkins casserole dish?"

"Tanya brought it over the last time she was here and I've forgotten to take it back."

A knock that sounds like Cranes either bumped into something or knocked something over. Abbie quirks a brow. So that clumsiness carries.

"Tanya was here? When?"

George pulls a frown. "Last month, month before last, I can't remember. Brought me a lasagna. I begged Jocelyn to leave the recipe card but she waggeda finger at me and said family recipe. So you'll have to butcher something else for supper. Abbie, come let me show you to your room. The other one isn't home now----"

"Other one?"

"Caroline, abroad, dressing the masses,so you can have her room---"

"Dad," Crane ducks back out again, sleeves already rolled up and an apron tied around his waist. "That's not necessary."

George pauses, corners of his mouth turning up as his eyes dart between Abbie and Crane. "Oh? You are just co-worker friends, yes? I made up Caroline's----"

"Yes but we usually…."

His fathers brows arch in interest. An imploring look on his face. "Usually? Usually what?" he wheedles. Crane's mouth goes dry as he stammers and Abbie chuckles before touching George's arm.

"Caroline's room will be fine."

Crane is still stuttering as George shoots him a wink and escorts Abbie upstairs. "Try not to set off the smoke detector" he hollers.

* * *

 

"Is this a time capsule" she wonders aloud and George booms a laugh beside her. She shrinks and smiles sheepishly.

"'Fraid so. The more things change the more you want to keep the same. And Caroline used to throw terrible fits when she came home and things had been moved around. She's a dear, really, but strong Type triple A personality and she will know if you sleep on the throw pillows;" he winks at her "So I didn't put them out for the visit. She knows you're staying in here though, so don't need to tip toe. There's your closet, next door is the bath and opposite there is Ichabod's room. And I'm down the hall. Any questions?"

Abbie spins on her heel. "No, thanks George."

"Great." he starts off, but then pauses, a hand on the door as he turns back around to face her. "He was a little stingy on the details. But. How did you meet?"

"I showed up at his salon." Abbie smiles. "My friend, Cynthia Irving, works with him."

George's face lights up. "Oh. How is she? it's been years, but I never forgot that she came all the way over here when Amelia……well…..I nearly thought she was, 'someone' to him, you know? To come all this way with him to grieve, but turns out she's just a very good friend."

The new information gives her pause. Had Cynthia ever mentioned traveling before? for a funeral? Suddenly Crane's antsy behaviour makes sense. The bubbling dread that had been in him on the flight over. Not just a return to a place where his past was painful and murky. But also the last place he'd seen his mother alive. An unexpected ache wells in her chest. Oh, Crane. "Yeah." she manages. "Cynthia's the best. I grew up with her, actually."

"Did you now."

"Yeah, she….she got my applications ready for Julliard. Her and Crane havea great business."

"I've seen pictures."

He hasn't invited you she nearly asks but stops herself. Not your business, Abbie. "It's the only place I go to now. They styled me, for the Oscars. And Crane had done my hair for a few of my projects before hand."

"You like him?"

"Excuse me?"

"His work, I mean, of course." George nods.

"……yes…..no better hands, in the biz. In my opinion."

His mouth stretches into a grin. "That's what I like to hear." he beams with pride. "Wish Amelia could….well." he gives a sad smile. "Nice of you to come visit with him. Really, you've done great work. Measures opened up feelings in me I'd near forgotten I had."

Her face warms. She tucks a non existent strand behind her ear, fidgeting. Arrogant as it may sound, she's gotten use to praise. Interviewers and critics rave, her peers too, and she knows Crane and Cynthia are only ever honest----but they're friends and she's given to the notion that friendship comes with a certain degree of guaranteed approval and support.

But George doesn't need to like her, or her films. She appreciates his opinion.

"You go to those places yourself?" he queries.

Her head snaps up. "Hmm?"

"Those…..those hurt places." She watches as his gaze shifts to close cousin analytical. Studying her. "Is that where you find the inspiration?"

That feels close to home. As she meets his eyes dead on she gets the feeling that George knows it. That he's venturing someplace a little sore to the touch. A physician  who's already got a hunch, of what ails you. Just prodding you along to confirm it. She's not sure why the idea of him 'knowing' sends off a flare of panic, but it does and she fights the urge to be defensive.

"We've all got those places, right?" her smile is brittle edged and George notes it before he grins at her, releasing the door frame.

"You're like him." he says, expression and tone unreadable. Abbie nearly asks what he means but he cuts her off, "I'm going to make sure he doesn't burn the kitchen down. We'll call for you."

The conversation leaves her a little rattled.

It takes a moment for her to shake out her shoulders and flop backwards on Caroline's bed staring up at the ceiling. Must be a Crane family trait, she concludes. "Like father like son."

* * *

 

"So, she's nice."

"Dad."

"Now what have we got here, oh good nothing's burning."

"Dad" Crane groans. He feels a hand land and ruffle his hair.

"You know I'm teasing."

"Do I?"

"You didn't tell me she knows Cynthia."

Crane sputters momentarily. "I didn't think it mattered?"

He shrugs. "Guess it doesn't. She speaks highly of you."

"I work for her, I'd hope she does."

George holds his hands up in surrender. "You know as well as I that you don't tend to bring people home unless they mean a lot to you."

Crane whirls with spoon in hand. "Now Dad----"

"I thought Cynthia was more than friendship when you toted her along on your last visit." Here Georges tone goes sour. "Over five years ago."

Crane hangs his head in shame. "I'm sorry dad, you know that."

"I'm lucky Caroline comes by to visit dear old dad. Since you abandoned your family this way."

"You know I don't……it doesn't….." Crane sighs defeated.

"It doesn't feel like home." George grunts, nudging Crane over he takes the spoon Crane wields and begins stirring. His brow creases. "You find this in the recipe box or are you making this one up."

Snatching the spoon back Crane shuffles his father out of the way. "It's in mom's recipe card box it. It has dust on it."

George purses his lips. "It's old."

"You haven't been using it….haven't been….."

"Well now you bloody well know why the Jocelyn Jenkinsdish was here." He grumps before his face falls. " I've missed you Ichabod…..You know, you resemble her your mother, right there, tween your eyes."

Crane stirs silently.

"…..I know, as well as anyone, that despite your mother's and mines best efforts, there aren't a lot of fond memories for you here----"

"You gave me a wonderful childhood full of love and the support I needed to go forward."

"But not much incentive to come on back home, eh?"

At the stove, Crane's frown deepens, guilt coiling around his heart.

"It doesn't have to be every month. Not even every year, but every other. I mean look at it son you're back here after all this time for work. If you weren't following around that one upstairs who know's if you'd have even made the trip."

"Setting up Whim has been very, _time_ consuming." He grits out, eyes focused on onions, garlic and peppers, sizzling in the oil in the pot. "We were working out of the cabin for the first few years, getting the money together to open a proper store front, and then, there was so much time spent on just….keeping it open, a float. A steady clientele. It was hard starting from scratch----"

"And nothing but work work work from dusk till dawn. Red heads, brunettes, pixie cuts and goldielocks."

That makes his mouth twitch into a smile. Georges hand lands on his shoulder, giving him an affectionate squeeze. "Used to be over there, do you remember. Your wash station. And out in the hall way our dining table chairs lined off for all the girls at school. If you think about it, we were your first salon…..and I haven't even seen the new one."

"You didn't come."

"You never asked."

"I shouldn't have to ask."

"You know I've always supported you, but what could I do, Ichabod? You'd needed a fresh start from here so badly, and…..I know the toll losing your mother took, on you." Crane's white knuckled grip on the spoon makes George sigh, stepping away from him. "The toll it took on _me._ All of us…..I wasn't very helpful then was I."

"Just good company for a head start on lung cancer."

George gives a barking cough which Ichabod recognizes was a startled laugh. He waves Crane off when he starts to fuss, ambling to the cupboard above the sink and getting down a glass. He fills and drains it in one gulp, smacking his lips with satisfaction, dragging the back of his hand across his mouth. "You're right on that one. Damn near wanted to walk into the grave with her. She was the love of my life, you know. Loved her from when I set eyes on her. Back in school. Knew it was her."

Crane blinks and feels tears gathering up on his lashes. "She adored you."

"Oh," George huffs. "I know that. Amelia loved me to bits. From my big ears to my overgrown feet. I'd have dropped everything for her. Made all the time for her I could at every turn. Work kept me busy, but, I assure you, I made the time."

The hair on Crane's arms stand on end. A premonition, a warning of where this conversation is about to go.

"You work so much in that salon you don't have time for family. Guess that means no time for love, either"

"And you wonder why I haven't come home," he remarks dryly.

"I'm just saying, when we lost your mother I was devastated, and then course you were coming home, I was, happy, to see you, miserable, but happy and then you brought this woman who you spend all your time with, and well you know what I hoped."

He did indeed know. His father had come just shy of asking if Cynthia has good intentions toward his son. When the air had been cleared, there had been some awkward laughter.

After Amelia was put to rest Cynthia had stayed for a bit, helping Caroline and keeping company with Nathaniel and Tanya while Crane and George went for their grieving stroll, billowing smoke like chimneys as they disappeared into the evening fog rolling in.

"Cynthia's just a friend."

"Oh I know, I know. Just, you can understand why I got excited. I probably needed a distraction too, if I'm being honest. I was hopeful you were giving me one."

"You do know you have a daughter."

"Have you met your sister? Do you see her gettingmarried anytime soon?"

Crane shrugs. "She might surprise you."

"Ichabod,I can count the people you've brought home on one hand, and they've all mattered to you, in some way, Tanya and Nathaniel, Cynthia……they were all clearly your friends…..yet you roll up with a movie star, and you're not here because You chose to be here, you pretty much followed her here."

"Dad it's for work----"

"Ichabod Alexander Crane."

He stiffens, turning down the burner and easing the pot off the stove he folds his arms as he faces his father. He squints. "When was the last time you had a hair cut?"

"Don't change the subject" George blusters. "I think perhaps you did conventions when you started out but you were never following a client to and fro. And on top of which suggesting you share a bed together. You never said boo when I said Cynthia could room with Caroline."

Crane opens his mouth and then shuts it, caught.

"And I know you. I barely see you but I know you, I know that damn look on your face,"

"What look----"

An arched brow. Crane swallows.

"Flustered and moon eyed. You know the last time you looked like that? A little bumbling but happy? I damn well think it was when you were in high school. With your friends. You looked like that with them, all the time."

"What are you getting at dad." he sighs heavily, scrubbing a hand across his face and then ruffling his hair.

"You like that woman upstairs as more than someone else in your chair. When are you going to say something about it?"

"Dad----"

"Don't go letting things get like the last time---"

"Abbie's client and a friend."

"That you follow for all her needs. Playing in her hair. Following her abroad."

"She asked me if I would come----"

"I've been asking you to visit, Ichabod."

"Hey,"

Both Crane men jump, whirling on the petite figure that peers shyly from the door way. "Is dinner almost done? It smells good down here."

* * *

 

It smelled good but didn't taste it, unfortunately.

"Pass me the salt, the pepper, the garlic, have we got ketchup? " George calls happily as he churns the food around on his plate, mixing the seasoning in. Abbie obliges, twirling her fork in the pasta and chuckling.

Beside her, Crane's cheeks are red.

"Well at least there wasn't a fire," Abbie teases.

His blush increases.

"She's right there Ichabod and from what I can tell, nothing burned. Except the onions, but we'll say you caramelized them."

"Dad I wonder sometimes if mother hasn't possessed you."

"Nah," George chuckles. "You spend decades with a person you start to rub off on one another. She was proper surly the last few years."

At that Crane laughs and Abbie basks in the domesticity of it. Family dinners. She doesn't have those anymore. Stopped the instant her parents died.

No dinner after that was hurriedly scuttling off into her room with her portion and staying the hell out of Jennifer's way. She was fortunate to spend some dinners with Cynthia, but when she left for school?

Dinner with floor mates.

Dinner with roomies.

But it never quite felt the same.

Family feels different.

Real family. The type that cares about you. Gives you hell because they care about you. Not just because they wish to make your life a hell.

She eats the bland food happily and follows Georges lead with the spices which helps a touch. "Do you have sugar?" she asks.

Georges brows lift. "Now _that,_ is inspired. Ichabod pass the sugar."

A pinch in each plate and it helps to cut down some of the tang. George groans a sound of approval. "Here's an idea. He does your hair and you teach him how to cook. How's that sound?"

"You're embarrassing your son." Abbie giggles, her eyes lingering on Crane's reddened face.

George glances too. Notes that despite the nervous smile, Crane's eyes are transfixed on Abbie's face.

He shakes his head as he raises his glass to his lips. These two.

* * *

 

Crane punches his pillow a few times as he settles in for bed, reaching for the lamp on the night stand----exactly where he last left it. His mother hadn't been the sort to convert rooms after he and Caroline left for school and his father hadn't been of a mind to against Amelia's wishes, even from the grave. So there they were. He wriggles and shuffles on the mattress.

He was always too tall for it. He flops on his side. When the door creaks. He turns over and notes the small statured shadow lingering there in the doorway.

"Abbie?"

"Crane?"

"Close the door!" he hisses.

Well, the question she was about to ask has been answered as she pushes the door shut carefully behind her and skips over to the bed just as he sits up, turning back on the light. The brief cast of illumination highlights a shelf in a corner, worn, old books. Magazines, a few of them. "Is that Hype Hair?" she asks, distracted. Puzzled, he glances over to where she's pointed.

"I think so. Don't ask me what year….." he trails off as she hits the big light and strolls right by him on route to his shelf but then pauses again seeing the pictures all over the wall. The certificates.

She reaches up tentatively to one of a younger Crane, standing with a trumpet to his lips. His cheeks puffed out and his face a little red. "Is this you?" she asks. "You're adorable! What grade was this."

"Abbie, it's late."

"I'm not sleepy," she retorts with a glint in her eye. "What was this for?"

"I was….eleven? My first trumpet recital."

"Were you good?"

"……Decent. I played into high school. I don't play anymore. But I think the old horn is probably around here still somewhere."

"What was this for?"

"They gave certificates for completion of levels. That was a band competition. I got that one in Karate."

"What level did you get to?"

"Black belt. It was effective deterring fights, for the most part."

Her giddy smile dissipates. "Is that why you took it? So you could fight them?"

He rises to his feet and joins her at the picture she's looking at.

"I had him beat in thirty seconds flat," he boasts.

"That's a yes." she surmises.

He glances down at her. "It was after my first proper collision with Emery……got myself _and_ Caroline sent to the principle. Turns out when provoked…..I---I have a bad temper." He turns away, gaze searching before he makes a happy sound and goes toward a doll. "My parents wanted me to be able to defend myself. They've always supported and loved me. I got very lucky with them."

"Me too." Abbie admits, then quickly bites her lips together. "What's that?" she asks, watching Crane lovingly twirl the dolls hair around his fingers.

"My first doll. Here."

Abbie took the doll in her arms. Smiling at the large eyes and painted on two front teeth. "Her name?"

"Beautify Me Angie." Crane recalls softly. "……I really knew then how much they loved me. When they gave me this. That christmas is the best one, in my memory."

"She's beautiful."

Crane grins, lost in nostalgia. "Maybe I should take her back home with me, for the memories," he chuckles before setting her back on her shelf and coughing lightly. He surveys the room. "I wonder if dad dusts."

Abbie had had certificates, took. Pictures, photo albums. Some medals. Old programs. A prop or two kept in a memory box. She heaves and forces back the bitterness that wells up inside her.

All gone. She has none of this to come home to or share with someone else.

No history.

All turned to ash, dust, flickering cinders.

Today, it's like Abbie dropped from the sky, fully formed. She's always been cagey in interviews. Tragic accident took her parents. And she left it there.

There will be no specials on her in years to come revisiting childhood homes and no photo collages showing a bright eyed loved version of her, beaming brightly on a stage.

"Abbie?"

"Hmm?"

"You….drifted off, a moment."

She blinks. "Being here with you, has just….it brings back a lot of….." she recalls George's seeking, knowing gaze.

"You're like him"

He must mean pain, she thinks. Maybe George can see she's a woman who glides over, paves over, and when it suits her, repurposes her pain. The dear man must think that means something her and Crane have in common.

"What was it you said?" she rallies. "the past doesn't just….."

"Vanish." Crane nods slowly, reaching out a hand tentatively to her shoulder.

Nodding sadly Abbie grabs his sleeve and tugs him toward the bed. He goes with her, hitting the light as he slips in on the narrow thing and instinctively she curls into him, tucking her head under his chin. He has to shift more than usual to accommodate her and the frame creaks and shrieks with every move. When he finally settles Abbie breathes out slow, her breath warm on his chest.

"No…..but sometimes…..sometimes it does."

A sniffle, and wetness, what must be tears, fall on his skin. He caresses her head as she clings to him. He wants to ask what's wrong and he looks down to do so at the same time that she looks up and darts a peck, aiming for his chin, side of his face maybe.

But that's not where she lands.

Chaste, closed mouth, gentle, press of lips. Her eyes flutter open, blinking at him before she pulls away, burrowing deep into his chest and hiding her face. "Goodnight Crane," she murmurs.

He replays that moment over in his head, rapid fire, several times before his arms cinch around her, legs tangling as they do. "Night Treasure. Sleep well."

* * *

 

In the morning George brings up a tray of breakfast. 

Too early for Abbie to sneak back to her room. 

Too early for Crane to remind her she should. 

And both flush deeply to notice George had piled enough food on the plate for two. 

"Good morning you two," he'd greeted with a smirk and a wink, casually marching back down the stairs. 


	25. Chapter 25

2015

The start of the day is slow, despite rising early and being provided with food; It doesn't change the fact that Abbie turned a little more than usual and Crane had long since grown out of the habit of wrangling his limbs in his childhood bed, much less with company. She'd made a few fussy, grumpy noises in his middle of the night shuffling, him uttering softly, drowsily, "Sorry, Treasure,"

"S'okay," she'd murmur back, fingers bunched in his night shirt as the frame gives another protesting whine.

" _Hush, you,_ "

And a few sleepy, fond snickers would follow.

Now they sit up in the bed, flustered by George's delivery and move with great ease and care. Though more so because they are a little creaky from the tight share and the rest of their body would direly like to lie back down.

"I apologize for him. He use to mind boundaries once, but….once I started having trouble in school…."

Abbie reaches forward to smooth down strands of his hair that stick up at odd angles, smiling at him. "He got protective and over invested. It's sweet."

"Is it?" he grouches, feeling a little annoyed with his dad's teasing.

"Hmm" Abbie hums. "It really is. You should enjoy it, Crane," she says wistfully. "Moments like those, the things they do to show they love you….." she trails off, her chest heaving with the effort of trying to cram the memories back down. She's been so good at using this hurt it's upsetting now that it won't let itself be checked. " _Damnit,_ " she scrabbles off the bed away from him, squeezing her eyes shut.

"Abbie---" he lunges to catch her, slender fingers wrapping around her wrist.

* * *

 

Past

Mama had made breakfast that morning, brought it up to her with a smile, a hand caressing her cheek, before asking; giddy on her behalf "You ready for your audition baby?"

The accident fills her mind again. The horns. Impact. Screech of metal. Denting, ripping. Blood. Splatter. Screaming.

* * *

 

2015

Dear God.

Since when is it this vivid.

Her heart broken.

Their family.

"Treasure, come, come on, come here."he pulls her back even though she direly doesn't want to go. She doesn't want to make a show of this, and yet. When she gives into the tug she slams into his chest so hard air leaves his lungs in a rush. Her arms spring about him tight and she hangs on while she cries.

The fog of sleep that was still clinging to him quickly dissipates as he returns the embrace. Bedside, steam curls up from the two mugs balanced on the tray. There's a spot of coffee where it spilled on Georges way up. Rubbing a circle on Abbie's back he reaches with the other hand for the handle and pats her gently. "Coffee? Abbie would that help?"

A silent nod and she relaxes her grip, turning to accept the mug she brings it up to her lips, eyes still closed and drinks. It's strong, dark and sweet. "Oh," she groans.

"Better?"

"…..A little……I'm sorry about that…..that episode……" she sniffles.

"Don't be." He assures, reaching for his own mug and watching her over the rim. "……But…..we did, have an agreement…." he clears his throat nervously. "About….our friendship, that we would…."

Abbie catches on his train of thought and sighs. "Yeah." Setting the mug down she turns to face him, crossing a leg underneath her. "Not really fair if the openness thing only goes one way, huh."

"If you're willing to share, just what you can, no more."

She works her mouth a moment, blinks a few times. "I lost my parents. Both of them. At once." She feels like she can't breathe. "Car accident."

He can't help that he gasps his shock but it really hurts to hear. Losing his mother had been rough on the family; and they'd had time to deal with it. He couldn't fathom if he'd lost them both that way. His gut twists to think it.

"it was sudden…..and…..it still feels like my fault? I know everyone and their mother and their therapist would say it isn't……Cynthia sure did, but, sometimes, it still feels like if it weren't for me….."

"Abbie, no,"

"You don't understand," she cuts him off, "If it weren't for me, we wouldn't have left the house that morning. I had an audition and….." her face crumples. "I've got all of this but I don't have them and sometimes I wonder if it was worth it----but they'd have wanted this for me so I…..I just gotta keep doing it. And I love it but maybe I shouldn't because this….chasing this…..it took so _much from me I-Ichabod,_ sometimes I think I'd give _anything_ to have them back."

His mug goes back to the tray and she's back in his arms. His heart began to crack precisely when her voice hitched on his name and now it just feels like some sort of heaving, burdened muscle that wishes it could give, any and everything to make her pain stop.

He'd have never known.

Did anyone?

Cynthia, forever affable, Cynthia, maybe.

Still that seems like hardly enough for the way Abbie is splintering here in his arms.

"And…and then….after…." she hiccups.

"After…..?"

Only sobs answer him.

It will have to suffice.

* * *

 

George looks up from his coffee, prepared to rib his son but his face falls when he sees Crane carrying the food back down.

"She didn't like it?" he asks, crestfallen.

Shaking his head Crane draws out the chair opposite his father and reaches for one of the slices of toast, buttering it. "It's not that Dad," he assures. "She thought it was very sweet."

"She did?"

Crane nods as he takes a bite, chews then swallows. His father glances back at the full plate. "Then why didn't she eat."

If his mind wasn't still so busy trying to puzzle out Abbie he might have smiled at George's pouting. "I think your kindness brought up, some memories, for her…….I'm, I'm really not sure if I should say."

George pats his hand. "Then don't." Crane regards him gratefully as he reaches for a slice of cheese, placing it on the remainder of his slice and folding it in half. He picks away at the plate silently a moment before George shifts, leaning forward, chin on his hands. Crane arches a brow.

"Well. Are you going to tell me how long it was before she snuck into your room."

"Dad!"

His father's eyes glint with mischief. "You two weren't exactly quiet, you know. I worried the poor bed wouldn't survive."

Embarrassed heat sweeps over Crane from head to toe as he splutters, crumbs flying from his mouth, "Th-th-that w-was th-the-the -c-c-creaky bed! If you s-s-s-so much as t-t-t-turn it-----" But George's lips are pressed together, fighting so hard not to laugh his face is turning red. "Oh Dad," he groans, putting his head in his hands. "Stop teasing me."

George can't take it anymore; he bursts out in a hearty guffaw, slapping the table top. "Oh you should have seen your face," George continues, "Th-th-th-that-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!" he folds over, holding his own sides. Across the table Crane glares as he grabs a strip of bacon, biting into it aggressively.

"You can bare your teeth at me all you want, you're still my son, and with only me left on deck I've got the job of being embarrassing enough for two parents, and you and Caroline aren't here enough to get your proper dose, so" he wipes a tear from his eye, snagging an apple. He bites in with a satisfying crunch. "So the pair of you get double."

"If this is supposed to be incentive to come home……you're not being very convincing." Crane hedges.

"You miss this." George goads him, scuffing his shoulder. "Admit it, you miss this."

He would never admit it; but yes, reminded what it was like to be home, now, he sort of does. His father's loving teasing was abundant growing up, always balanced by his support. But back then there was his mother---who, could also be properly mischievous on a good day----usually somewhere in the background to rein George in.

* * *

 

Past

"Now George what did I say about teasing during breakfast," she'd chastise, fingers grip twisting his ear as her children went into hysterics at the table. "They'll never finish at this rate."

"Alright alright for God's sake Amelia let go!"

She'd oblige, and then shoot a wink over at her son and daughter, flushed pink in flustered amusement.

* * *

 

2015

Crane doesn't answer beyond giving his father a withering glance which is enough for George who sits back with a grin. "See. I knew you missed me." Crane chokes a laugh around his next bite.

He thinks of Abbie's grief woken afresh, missing her parents. Wonders if they'd had moments like these, how much does she cling to them, if she lets herself.

Crane decides in that moment to be very grateful for what he has; ponders if there's a way to share this with her.

"Put that aside and cover it, she might have her appetite back when she comes down. Is she coming with us today?"

"Coming where?"

George levels his own blue eyes with his sons. "Caroline will be here in a few hours. To see you of course. But it's hard to tell when we'll all be in the same place again."

"……Dad"

"We're going to go see your mum." George watches emotions play across Crane's face but holds his gaze, daring him to challenge it.

Crane inhales deeply. He'd known, it would come to this, truthfully. He knew they would have to. He knows he should. He stands from the table and gives a nod.

"…..I'll ask, if you don't mind."

George shakes his head. "Not at all."

Fingers drumming anxiously along the back of the chair. "Do...flowers, do we have flowers?"

George's mouth twists. "She'llbe needing new ones. Last set I brought probably withered by now."

"I'll, I'll take Abbie to the florist with me then?"

"Course. You can take the car. 'S old, But It'll run. And…..get whatever you see fit for her, eh."

Crane nods again tightly.

"She'll be glad to see how you've grown." George shuffles past him out into the hall, on route to the living room when he glances up the stairs. "Morning Abbie, aren't you a ray of sun."

Faint chuckling. "Thank you, Morning George,"

"Some food left back there for you still, if you're peckish."

"Thank you," she swings into the kitchen and finds Crane standing a little frozen there. He sags upon seeing her and reaches out a hand. "How are you holding up?"

"Better, thanks." her gaze roves over him. "Can I ask you the same thing?"

"……This is very odd but, you've met my father."

"Yes….." Abbie replies slowly.

Crane eyes her warily, wondering if it's too much. Sharing her grief about her parents and now this. He swallows and gives her hand a squeeze. "Would, would you like to meet, my mother?"


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abbie makes a phone call after Crane asks her to visit his mother's grave.  
> The florist.  
> Meet Caroline.   
> The grave :/

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> latter half of the chapter loosely quoted from HappyHappyReader's "Wait for Me"

The phone vibrates hard against the night stand and Cynthia groans as she turns her head on the pillow to glare at it through narrowed eyes in the darkness. Must be one of those scammer calls. Can't be anyone she knows. No sane person would call her at---- _Bzzzzzzzt, bzzzzzzzzt, bzzzzzzzt_ \----it persists and she wills it to go to the machine but soon as it does it starts ringing again. Irritable and hazy she grabs for it, swiping the screen.

"You didn't tell me his mother died."

Cynthia squints at the number. "Abbie? Abbie do you have any idea what time it is here? Somebody better be dying."

On the other end Abbie frowns and checks the time on her phone and feels instant remorse. For Cynthia, the pause makes her panic and she bolts upright, eyes snapping wide open. "Is one of you dying? How's Crane? How's George?"

"Wait a minute, how do you know where I am."

A yawn. "Crane mentioned before you left that he might take the chance to visit. I just guessed." She yawns again, "You mind telling me why you're calling at 4am?"

"I'm so sorry."

"Not sorry enough cause you're still on the phone" Cynthia whines, turning on the light. "So what is it. What's the emergency."

"You didn't tell me Crane's mother died."

"No? Because it wasn't your business? Just like how I didn't tell him about your parents and your sister?"

"And you never told me you'd met his family before----"

"What are you, jealous?" she snaps, glancing at the window over her shoulder and not seeing a single sliver of sun. "I've got the salon to open in a few hours and you've woken me up to be mad at things I didn't tell you from years ago?"

Abbie takes a deep breath. "You're right, I'm sorry Cynthia, I just…..I don't know what….."

"George ask you what your intentions are with his son yet," she drawls and Abbie chokes.

"What?"

"He didn't tell you? Milling around after the funeral, asked if I was going to make an honest man of Crane" Cynthia snickers but Abbie's stomach flips. George did mention the mix up, she just hadn't allowed herself to process the weird wash of feelings it stirred in her. Now she knew. She was jealous. Well that's stupid. Noting her friends silence Cynthia sighs. "Alright, what's going on over there."

"Crane and his father, and I guess Caroline? His sister? they're going out to visit his mother's grave and….."

"Crane asked you to come with?"

"Yes,"

"And you called me because….."

"Should I go? Isn't that kinda personal?"

"If he thought it was inappropriate to come, he'd have said. I know Ichabod, Abbie. He's very good at putting up walls if he wants to. If he asked, you're invited. You get dressed and go……it'll be hard for him because he hasn't been back home….I don't think since his mother was buried."

"Did---did you ever meet her?"

"…..No. Spoke to her on the phone once though. Asked me to look out for him."The protective note that creeps into Cynthia's tone makes Abbie give a small smile. It's the same voice Cynthia uses when people used to ask about her. "He had a rough….time….growing up….did he tell you about it?"

"Yeah, I really felt for him."

"He was reeling from a lot of that still, when I met him in school." Cynthia huffs. "Funny huh, I finish taking care of you and I walk into class couple months later and there's someone else for me to look after."

"Got a thing for adopting strays."

"Abbie that's _not_ what I _meant."_

"Ahhh, I know, Cynthia, I know….I think I speak for both of us when I say we're grateful for your friendship."

"And I'm grateful for you both. Can I go back to bed now?"

"I…..nevermind."

Her friend groans. "Oh, what, what, what,"

"I told him about my parents. Cynthia I cried all over him."

Adjusting pillows Cynthia flops back down on them with a sigh, gazing at her ceiling. "What brought that on?"

"His dad is really nice? His dad is really nice, and it just got me thinking and he's got all this childhood memorabilia, and you know what happened to my home……" her voice warbles. "It was a lot, it all hit me at once, and after I wept all over him in his bed, after his dad brought up breakfast, I just…..I had to explain, you know?"

Cynthia opens her mouth to ask about Abbie bunking with Crane when she knew Caroline's room was probably available; but that girlish gossip could wait. "Yeah, I know. And it's good to talk about it Abbie. You and him are alike in that you don't…..you don't really like to open up that double locked chest you've got around your hearts."

"You sound like his dad," Abbie moans, digging through her bag for something that she thinks is passable for graveside. Is violet too much?

"George is an oddly wise man, really. Really blunt, Caroline too, oh, by the way, you can tell Crane he missed Nathaniel and Tanya sweeping through…."

"You've met _them_ too?"

"Abbie. You've got to understand this, about Crane. His friends aren't many, but they mean a lot to him. They become family. He might not give too much about himself, but he does give a lot _of,_ himself. You get it?"

"You might have to break that down for me when I get back home."

"You'll figure it out. And don't wear black." Cynthia grumbles, turning over. "They're visiting, not burying, you'll stir them all up all over again. You done crisising over there or should I just go put on the coffee."

"Girl."

"Well?"

Abbie allows herself a brief chuckle. "……Alright. Thanks, and I'm sorry I woke you up again."

"What're friends for." she yawns.

"Sleep well."

"Just relax Abbie. Just be there for him."

"Love you Cyn."

"Love you too. _Buh-Bye_ "

Abbie throws the phone on the bed and reaches for a violet sweater, pairing it with her favourite jeans. She takes a deep breath.

* * *

 

The phone rings.

"Oh you have got to be kidding me." Cynthia grunts, grabbing the phone again. She squints at the screen. "Crane? Do you know the time?"

"……I'm so so sorry Cynthia, but….do you have a moment?"

I love my friends, I love my friends, I love my friends, she chants to herself. She takes a deep breath. "Sure Crane. Talk to me."

* * *

 

Abbie looks smart in violet, he thinks, absently tugging her coat shut as they step out the door. She shoots him an inquiring look before he pulls his hands back, rapid fire. "Sorry, I----"

"Thanks," she says, reaching up to straighten his scarf. She has to stand on her tip toes even with him bending a bit for her reach. She's so, precious, he decides.She's so sweet and vulnerable flashes across his mind like lightening in a dark sky. Part of him had chocked up that bareness of soul that she offers on screen to mere craft, but no, that's a part of her too. She is stunning, talented, slipping out of one life into the next, and, vulnerable. He can't help but remember the wreckage of her this morning in his room and he feels protective of her now. Like he would stretch himself wide, a tarp, a forcefield, shielding her from the hurtful past and any other possible triggers.

It's not often that Crane pictures himself a protector. A supporter. A carer. A giver, of what he knows how. And sure, a defender, of himself, those he loves. But to protect? Protection is active, it's preemptive. It's seeking, looking out for a threat and keeping vigil that it won't approach the castle.

Defence is ensuring the walls won't fall once under attack.

So this other instinct, to a degree, fills him with a great deal of warmth but also a tremor of fear.

"What year is this?" she asks, eyes widening as the garage doors go up, revealing the green, ancient looking Ford.

"I grew up with it so I could' t tell you," he laughs softly, walking around to the car door he reaches in and starts the engine. It rumbles to life. "We'll go to the florists, and come back to have lunch with Caroline, I think dad said she'll have gotten off the train by then. Then, we go visit mum."

Abbie nods silently. "Sounds good."

He pauses, looking over the roof of the car. "Is this okay? I know it's a bit awkward but….I mean I would understand if it was….a lot."

Cynthia's words play in her ear as she shakes her head. He invited her. So he wants her here. "No. I'm honoured you asked."

Relief pours over him as he smiles. "Okay then. Okay. Ready?"

Abbie ducks in and fastens her seat belt as he settles in beside her. She touches his hand as it grasps the steering wheel. "Ready."

* * *

 

Daffodils, violets, chrysanthemums.

Roses.

Pink ones, white---are those yellow?

Orchids.

Baby's breath.

Tiger Lily

"Mama liked Tiger Lilies," She remarks, reaching to stroke a soft spotted orange petal. No poetic reason. Just that they were pretty and unusual. Daddy used to give them to her, every special occasion; Lori loved flowers in theory but she was horrible at keeping them. A week in the house around Valentines, or Birthday, their Anniversary, was just enough time for her to admire them before they withered away.

Crane examines them beside her, glancing at the vivid hue of the Orchids. "Did she garden?"

"Hmm? My mother? _garden_ ," Abbie scoffs, "Never. Plants hated her."

Crane stifles a chuckle and Abbie bumps him. "My apologies."

"No," She concedes, "It's funny and it's true. She admired them though. Just couldn't….manage them….What are you getting for your mom?"

Crane purses his lips, he's drawn to the brilliance of the Orchids, but that doesn't feel quite right. His eyes land on the pink Hydrangeas. Soft, fluttery looking things. Abbie tracks his gaze, pressing close along his side for a better look. "Those are nice," she offers, unconsciously letting her fingers seek and slip into his own. He returns the grip, but keeps his eyes trained on the flowers, bobbing his head once as he swallows. 

"These," he says, his voice coming out in a hoarse croak. "I'll get some of these."

She squeezes his hand. "They're beautiful."

"They symbolize grace and beauty," A new voice sounds behind them and they startle, turning around. "Oh, I'm sorry," The owner frowns at the sight of Crane's face, a hand coming up to rub aggressively at their nose, as if beset with a bad itch."Didn't mean to frighten you."

"No…no it's….fine," Crane's eyes narrow as he looks the manover, trying to puzzle out this uneasy feeling roiling through the air.

"You want the Hydrangeas?"

Abbie glances at the name tag idly: Ronnie. She sizes up the bulk of him. In this flower shop. Good for him, she thinks, leaning to sniff at an enticingly bluish purple flower. She pulls away, dismayed; that is not as sweet as she had hoped it would be. She wrinkles her nose as she turns back to Crane gesturing vaguely to a few other things to add to the bouquet.

"Yes, please, thank you…… Are you alright?"

"Hmm?" Crane gestures at them, still scratch-rubbing at their nose and chin.

"Oh, Crooked nose, earned it some years back, sometimes I get self conscious of it." The man studiously gathers the flowers, wrapping and tying them before he turns to the register. "Debit?"

"I….see" Crane replies sweeping his gaze over their towering frame. "Yes, Debit,"

Within minutes Abbie and Crane are sauntering out of the shop when Crane pauses, turning toward the door and finds the owner looking back out at him through the glass, face impassive except for a nod and flap of a hand, waving him off. "You alright Crane?"

His brows shoot up finally, his memory kicking in. "…..His crooked nose….I think I gave him that."

"What?"

"I…..it was in highschool, prom,"

"That's the Ronald jerk?"

"Treasure I fear I've known many jerks, but I believe, yes, that particular man, was Ronald."

Abbie whistles low. "Not to advocate for violence, but that had to be what, over a decade ago? You got him good."

Crane purses his lips as he fumbles in his pocket for his keys. "He provoked me…..but I'm not proud of it. I didn't ever imagine it would scar….way it has."

"Hey." Abbie touches his arm lightly, peering up into his eyes. " He scarred you too, I don't really like eye for an eye but….you aren't the villain here."

He smiles down at Abbie trying to cheer him and he releases her hand to curve up around her shoulder, drawing her in for a side hug, touching his chin to her crown. "Thank you, Abbie."

"And…..I don't know if it's consolation but…..for a guy who had sounded so concerned with masculinity……he seems to really like his job."

"People lash out, when they're…..afraid, I guess."

"Not an excuse. Just bad coping." Abbie sighs.

Crane leans on the car, twirling the flowers in his hand as he gazes down at them. "Yep. Lots of that. Well, He's got his life, I've got mine, and we've both the battle scars to show for it, looks like. But He's moved on….And I think so have I."

"It's almost noon," Abbie wheedles, admiring the flowers with him. "Those are lovely, Crane. They'll look really nice…."

Crane closes his eyes, inhaling deeply, counting to five before he exhales and blinks them back open again. "Yes, yes they will. Ready to head back? Meet sister dearest?"

Fingers searching for his again Abbie tugs him forward so he stands straight. "Yeah. Let's go. I'll take these." She grabs the flowers from him, fingers glancing off his for just a second before she skips to her side of the car and slides in. She honks the horn.

"Come on! I'm hungry!" she grins.

* * *

 

"So, his work girlfriend, or,"

"Oh he says it's just work but you know how your brother is."

"And what makes you think she's so different from Cynthia? That's she's not just another friend?"

"I've never seen him stammer so much, and you should see the way he looks at her."

"…..But she's nice?"

"From what I've seen. Not what you'd expect, as hollywood goes. Extremely down to earth, polite. If you asked me, I'd say she likes him but he'd never forgive me for prying."

"Well maybe I ought to ask if he's gonna get up off his ass or is he going to sit back and watch and lament like he always does."

"Caroline----"

"You know he's bad at going after what he wants."

George eyes her surreptitiously. "Oh? Well I'm still over here grandchild less and with your mothers wedding dress still in storage-----have you gone after anything you want?"

"It took you long enough to get around to that dad. I thought we were talking about Ichabod."

"Oh, you're both my children so you're both fair game."

"Don't worry about me, worry about the hijinks you've got going on under your roof. I can't believe you let them share a room."

"They're grown folks Caroline."

"When I brought home Abe after my first term you crammed him in Ichabod's old room. "

"Yes well Abe looked like a wolf trying very badly to pass off that he was covered in wool."

"You're impossible----"

"Hmmmph, so I keep hearing. Anyway. She's coming with us to visit your mother."

"Oh that sounds like a _grand_ idea. Hello Abbie, you're meeting the whole family today, alive _and_ dead."

"Caroline!" George scolds. 

"Hello Hello, We're back," Crane calls.

"Damn!"

"Caroline!"

"Bloody hell."

"Caroline!"

Crane's broad strides carry swiftly into the kitchen where Caroline is glaring at a plate that she just dropped, helping take down some dishes. "Everyone alright in here or should we make a stop at the hospital?"

"It's nothing," Caroline sweeps up the shards efficiently and then flings her arms wide. "Baby brother!" she coos, making to swoop in on him when he blanches.

"Caroline you're bleeding." He whimpers. She glances at her hand for a beat.

"Small gash, come here." And locks her arms around him, careful not to use her hands when she sees Abbie over his shoulder. "Hello!" she chimes brightly, waving at Abbie.

With her bloodied hand.

"You must be Abbie! nice to meet you!" She breaks off from her brother and strides to Abbie, holding out her hand before remembering herself. "Whoops! Little too early to be wondering about my blood type eh? I'm a hugger, you?"

"S-s-sure----oof!"

Caroline looks narrower than Crane; shorter than him too. But the power in her arms is utterly misleading and she's still taller than Abbie.

"Caroline are you _insane?_ would you please wash your bloody hand!you're being weird! And unsanitary! My God" Crane shrills and Abbie has to snicker.

"Sorry baby brother!" she hollers, zipping past him to the sink and running the water. George leans on the counter where he'd been watching the scene unfold.

"I swear Amelia and I raised that one with better manners……but she forgets…..frequently."

Caroline's response is to snort.

Shooting an exasperated glance in his sisters direction Crane meanders curiously toward the brown paper bags stacked on the table.

"I got chinese. Thought we'd eat and then head out. Oh." She turns from the sink, brow furrowed as she examines the cut in her hand before digging around in another cupboard for a bandage. Wordlessly George reaches over, taking his daughters hand to place it. Silently doting. "Did you get the flowers?"

"i've got'em" Abbie gives them a little wave.

"Oh, Hydrangeas," Caroline sighs, "those are so pretty."

"Remember Ronald?"

George grunts. "boy who's father tried to charge you with assault for socking him one after prom." his grip tightens and Caroline yelps.

"Dad!"

"Sorry princess."

"Him." Crane concedes. "Runs the florist."

"And you gave him your money?"

Caroline quirks a brow. "Did he know it was you?"

Crane shrugs. "Maybe. I don't really care. I only remembered after."

"Well why----"

Abbie shirks off her coat, hanging it over a chair and taking over from Crane perusing the bags, gingerly lifting out carton after carton. "His nose never recovered. Do you mind? I'm starving."

"Help yourself dear."

"Go ahead Abbie!"

Crane's hand rubs her shoulder. "You didn't make much of breakfast. Dig in Treasure."

Caroline's mouth quirks, "Well hell Ichabod are you going to pass her a damn plate?"

George frowns. "You were such a mild mannered thing growing up."

She sticks her tongue out at him and he tugs her hair.

Amused, Abbie enjoys the family antics as she fills her plate, really taking Caroline in properly.

She's got red hair where her brothers is brown. Blue eyes. Very put together in a green blouse with a bow, the sleeves pushed up to her elbows, in tapered black pants. Her swept back in a bobbing pony tail.

"So Caroline, what do you do?"

"I design!" she replies gleefully, twirling chopsticks in noodles.

Thought so, Abbie thinks, taking her in. "Is that yours?" she gestures to the blouse. "I've been admiring it."

"I could make you one," she says casually, digging around in a carton. "How do you feel about polka dots?"

"Caroline," Crane admonishes. "This is not the time to client scout."

"Now I don't see why not. After all you're holidaying with her aren't you? And she's your client? What's an exchange of goods between friends? Hmm? What do you say Abbie?"

"I----"

"We-we are not holidaying! We're….Abbie's working! We're here on work business!"

"Bed sharing on 'work business' too, I'm sure," she smirks, popping a bite in her mouth and delighting in the scandalized look that flits across both faces.

"How," Crane gapes, "How did---Dad!"

"Time we headed out!" George announces, pushing back from the table suddenly, gathering plates to deposit in the sink. "Should we take one car or two?"

Caroline grins, leering at Crane and Abbie. "Two. I'll take Abbie. Girl time and all that."

"Caroline----"

"I promise to behave. Don't worry." She rises then striding out into the hall, slipping on her black stilettos and flinging her coat over her shoulders with grace. "Let's go Abbie! I rented a car, nicer than old faithful out there."

Abbie follows after, only glancing back once at Crane. Part of her doesn't mind getting to know his sister; another part of her worries Caroline will want to get to know _her._

* * *

 

Caroline starts the car and turns to a classical music station, keeping the volume low. "So I don't suppose my father bothered to congratulateyou on your Oscar win?"

Abbie laughs, "No, but it's alright."

"Well," Caroline inclines her head, "I'm congratulating you. Congratulations! How did it feel?"

"Surreal. Really, surreal, even getting nominated, it was……sometimes I still don't believe it. But the thing is sitting on my shelf now, so." she chortles to herself.

"I tune in to the awards even though I hardly see half the films, didn't see Measures, but I did see you in One Last Fling----it was fantastic, that one, kept me laughing, intrigued, really lifted my spirits"

"I'm really glad."

"So. You know Crane, guessing you know Cynthia then?"

"Mutual friend, as I've told your dad, she's been great to both of us, I think."

"She's very sweet, and a good shopping partner. Do you like shopping? I should take you before you skip back cross the pond," The car dips down a small hill and greenery stretches up on either side of them. "But anyway," Caroline continues, glancing over in her mirrors, checking that the men haven't gotten lost, "Your hair, for the ceremony, Ichabod do that?"

"Cynthia helped, but,it was his vision."

His sister tips up her chin, lips turned up in a pleased grin. "Ichabod's always had such a gift. It was him with hair and me with clothes. Used to do our own fashion shows growing up----I've been asking him to work with me but, ahhh, coming back, he's been a hard sell." Her eyes slide toward Abbie. "Since we lost mum. He tell you how?"

"….No," Abbie admits. "I haven't known when to ask."

Caroline bites her cheek, and huffs. "Cancer. Did chemo for it……had Ichabod shave her head…..he was a real champ about it, didn't shed a single tear while he did……kept me up half the night crying after though," her mouth pulls into a deep frown, brow furrowing. "It was hard for him, seeing her like that, you know? And by his hand, no less…..he'd been doing mine and mum's hair once he'd gotten confident. Gutted him to be the one clearing it off. And, and you'd think, after that, they said, alls clear, you know? We get a grace period, she's smiling, she's gained weight, He used to visit! But it came back, and, well….God was ready for her, I guess. We just weren't ready for Him to be ready."

"Caroline, I'm….I'm so sorry. That's, that's awful."

She shrugs. "Been years now. Don't hurt as much, but I miss her, you know? First proper show I had? Really wished she could have been in the crowd. Kept promising I'd design something special for her one day……bloody hell wouldn't it be my luck to make the dress she was buried in."

Abbie's heart sinks. "Oh, wow."

Caroline flaps a hand and gives a smile. "Glad I could do it though, yeah? Looking back. I was a mess sewing. Ruined a yard of fabricweeping and blowing my nose in it……I'd started it before she passed, mum knew the end was coming. She wanted pink," at this Caroline glances down at the bouquetin Abbie's lap. "That shade, said she wanted her dress to match the flowers they'd use. Doctorsgave her six months…..it was three."

Abbie looks down at the Hydrangeas now and recalls Crane's tender expression as he'd chosen them in the shop. Her heart aches for him. For them both. She wonders at this family that shares so readily and openly with her already when she has kept her self under lock and key for so long.

"I lost my parents, too. Car accident. It was sudden."

Caroline gives a look of sympathy. "Both?"

"Yeah."

"One fell swoop eh, hah. Oh you're greedy you know that?" this she seems to direct at the ceiling, at the sky and Heavens above. The Almighty."Don't got enough company as it is, holding whole dinner parties aren't you" she grumbles.

The image strikes Abbie as so bizarre she snickers and soon Caroline is chuckling weakly with her. "But that's life, eh? Got to believe everything has a purpose…..got to. I don't know, I think I'd go mad if I didn't."

Abbie sighs, leaning her head against the window.

"But what I do want to know," his sister regards her curiously. "Is what you meant by including our baby Crane in your speech. At the Oscars. You'll give him a big head you know." she teases.

Abbie feels herself blush. "He's…..he's supportive. I was….feeling uneasy the night before and….he was there, for me."

"Crane's got a huge heart and doesn't know what to do with it. But…..if he starts opening it up to you, you cherish it." Here Caroline fixes her with weighted look, and her voice carries a very vague warning. "Alright. We're here."

* * *

 

_**Here lies, Amelia Crane** _

_**Loving, and Beloved,** _

_**Wife to George Crane** _

_**And Mother,** _

_**To Ichabod Alexander and Caroline Lily** _

 

"Hey, Amelia," George smiles softly at the headstone. "Look who I magicked up. Ichabod's come to see you, and his friend, Abbie."

"She's very nice, mum" Caroline whispers. "Tiny thing. Shorter than all of us. Shorter than you! She's in movies."

"Um…." Abbie starts awkwardly and the Crane's turn on her with interest. "Hi," she waves, shaking the flowers to and fro and a few petals shake loose. "Oops." She grasps it tight. "Hi, nice, to meet you, Mrs. Crane. Grace, Abigail Mills. Yeah, I act. Your son, he's so talented, he has a real gift, he does my hair…..and he's my friend. You and your husband, you raised a really…" Abbie chews her lips searching for the word, "…..Beautiful, man. He's dependable, and capable, and your whole family have been so welcoming and I….I feel honoured to have met them, I'm sure they're as wonderful as they are, because you were here with them, loving them, caring for them. They've….given me a feeling of family that I haven't had in years. So, I…I hope you don't mind, me coming to see you, with them."

"See mum," Caroline sniffles, dabbing at her eye. "Told you she was nice. Ichabod, say something."

He wrings his hands silently for a moment before George catches his eye. "We'll give you a moment, hmm? Abbie, Caroline, let's let Ichabod visit for a bit, I'm sure he's got some catching up to do."

Abbie starts off to follow Caroline before remembering the flowers and doubles back to give them to Crane, he takes them with trembling fingers before Abbie wraps her own around his, securing his grip. "Thank you," he murmurs. She touches his arm, holding his gaze before joining his family at the bottom of the hill.

"….Hello mother."

He pauses and waits, listens in the wind. He watched his father, sister, and even Abbie converse with this slab of rock as though it was answering them and he's dismayed he can't find the same sense. Can't picture her scolding him for staying away so long. Can't hear her. Here, at the place she was laid to rest, the absence of her feels more absolute than he's let him self acknowledge in years. Yet, he's come all this way.

"…..I don't know if you're there or up there, but. I'm really sorry it….that it took work for me to come see you. That I didn't make it my business to come before. I didn't mean to abandon you. It just hurt to see you go. And, you know I've got my share of memories here….but that's no excuse."

A small breeze blows and he tugs his coat a little closer and then goes down on knee in a kneel. "I've missed you. Missed you a lot. But….I've been okay. My salon is doing really well. I'm doing really well. Dad and Caroline, they look great…." he reaches to touch the headstone. "I remember what you said, about somebodyloving me and loving the best that I know how…….just wanted you to know I haven't forgotten. I'm gonna do better, with the people in my life. With Dad, and Caroline. Tanya and Nate, Cynthia. And…..and Abbie." Bowing his head, he rests the flowers on the grave. "I love you mother. Love you, and miss you. We all do." He presses a kiss to his fingers, touching it to the headstone before he stands, breathing in deeply. He turns around and finds Abbie tip toeing back up the hill.

She pauses as she sees him watching her. "Sorry, I….just wanted to check on you. I know this must be hard, after so long."

"It is. But I needed this and, like everything, with time, it….it gets easier?"

She's not too sure about all that.

The way herbest and worst memories like to creep up on her. Unless easier is how quickly you can block them out or turn them around for your own use.

She holds out her hand to him. He strides forward and takes it. Their fingers interlock. His hand is so warm and secure.

Hers is so small, soft, but strong, grasping his.

"Yeah Crane," she smiles, turning him and starting down the hill. "Easier." __

* * *

The evening passes with easily, Caroline shows Abbie around her room "Seeing as you opted to tour Ichabod's instead," she demurred, flipping through a few forgotten sketch books, some of the old scraps of doll clothes she'd started out making before branching out. There was tea and dessert and Abbie was full to the brim of experience and living in these brief two days. And she ought to run through a few lines before they headed back to set in the morning.

Showered and changed she knocks on Crane's door, catching him just pulling his night shirt on. "Crane?"

"Hmm? Oh, Come in, Ready for bed?"

"Actually," She smiles shyly. "I was wondering if you'd help me, run through some lines?"

His mouth opens and closes twice before he swallows. "Sure, alright." the words are barely out of his mouth before she bolts past him and takes up residence on his bed, folding a leg beneath her and turning pages in the script.

"So, it's, sort of an emotional scene, not in a bad way, but, this has been an….emotional, few days,"

"An understatement," he remarks dryly and he watches the light dance in Abbie's eyes with amusement.

"An understatement," she agrees. "And well, I just feel like, while I have this energy, I'd take a different look at it, see if any of the feeling, comes out differently….does that make sense? is that okay?"

"You draw on life, rather often don't you."

"It's part of my process yeah. Sometimes more than others. I don't want you to think I only came along for, inspiration, or something though. I wanted to come, to be here, with you, and as your friend."

Crane considers before joining her, sinking down onto the mattress that gives a groan and whine. "I've never gotten to see you, up close, like this." he says, a little excited. "Sure we can try"

"Oh! Okay. Great, um you'll read Tim's lines, so, the Captain, and---Ichabod?"

His heart stutters. "Yes?"

"Stop me if it gets weird?"

"Hah, alright."

"Okay so, in this scene-----"

* * *

 

Incredible.

She's there, and then she's not.

It's her voice. Her lips moving, her eyes meeting his but she's slipped away into this other character and it's fascinating to actually see up close. But there, in her eyes, is still the keen awareness that she'sstill in there too, that's where parts of herself bleeds through. He gets caught up in the cadence of her voice and subtly of her gestures as she immerses herself in the scene, sometimes forgetting to call out his own lines in the process.

She feels moved to stand so she does, reciting more of the dialogue from memory and he follows her, he's reading the lines but truth be told he's barely following where he is in the script and where the scene is actually headed; he reads the little note that suggests his character take her hand and so he does, glancing up from the page after he delivers his line and his heart stops at the way she's looking at him.

And he can't tell if she's looking at him or if it's the other one, the person she's pretending to be. She lifts the hand he's holding and places it over her heart. He's stunned and distantly registering how near he is to her breast when she speaks again, voice full of heavy emotion.

And he knows it must be the character speaking, he knows it can't be her, but she takes two steps closer to him still.

"Make love to me," she whispers, eyes shining bright with trepidation but also fearless, audacious hope. Desire. "Please, I need you to make love to me."

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are love!


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